"Freedom felt amazing… until I realized it doesn't come with a manual. Or a meal."
The first two days were easy.
I walked around the city like it was mine.
Window-shopped like I could afford it.
Slept on a bench like I was living some poetic movie.
By day four, I was hungry.
By day six, I was desperate.
I had no plan.
No friends.
Just a few crumpled bills in my pocket that disappeared faster than I imagined.
Instant noodles. Cheap tea. One bus ride too far.
I walked into shops, cafés, hotels —
anywhere that looked like they might need someone who could smile and work hard.
But the answers were always the same.
"No experience? Sorry."
"We're full."
"Come back next month."
"Get out of here, kid."
Some didn't even bother with words — just a look.
Like I was dirt. Or invisible.
I slept behind a train station one night.
Another night under a bridge.
I told myself it was temporary.
That struggle was part of the story.
But deep down, I was terrified.
I didn't call home.
Not because I was proud —
but because I was ashamed.
This wasn't freedom.
This was survival.
Still, every morning, I got up.
Brushed my teeth in public bathrooms.
Tried again.
Because something inside me —
some tiny, stubborn hope —
refused to let me quit.