On the flyover, all you can see is a sliver of sky. A thin thread stretching across the concrete ceiling, a reminder of something vast and unreachable. For most people, it's just a patch of blue, but for me, that strip of sky is everything. Reminds me of all of the above.
I've been here for days. I count the cars as they whine overhead, feeling the vibrations of the ground beneath my back. They are a steady mechanical heartbeat, a reminder of a world still rushing to a place I no longer belong. Or perhaps never did.
People pass by. Sometimes I'm so close that I can see the discomfort flicker in their eyes before they look away. I became invisible in my visibility. It is another form of the city's shadow. They say they see people like me all the time, but yet they never really see us? We are ghosts of fear without our own approval. There is a strange clarity to invisibility. When no one is looking back, you begin to see the world with sharper relief.
But what most people don't realize is that I wasn't always here. I had what they call a normal life: a home, a career, a family. I was the one who once had...