Whistle~ Whistle~
My hands stuffed inside the pockets of my joggers, I walked with a slight sway, letting the cool New York breeze slap against my face.
The streets were louder now, packed with that chaotic rhythm only this city could pull off—horns blaring, people yelling, some guy pushing a cart stacked with bagels like he was on a holy mission. I let my hood hang low, not really hiding, but keeping the world at arm's length.
For once, it felt… normal.
The smells were everywhere—oil, bread, something spicy coming from a food truck parked across the street. I slowed down, my stomach growling like it had a mind of its own.
"Damn… didn't think I'd actually miss street food."
Back in my old life, I couldn't go ten steps without a stall selling vada pav or golgappa. Here, though, it was hotdogs and pretzels, with some fusion crap people pretended was 'authentic.' Still, hunger didn't care about authenticity.
