Renzo slowly pulled his head out from inside the pushcart. He looked around—to the right, to the left, and behind him—to make sure the syndicate men who were chasing him were gone.
His hands were trembling as he gripped the side of the cart tightly, afraid that someone might suddenly appear and drag him away again.
"Grookk…" a loud rumble came from his stomach. It was the sound of long suffering, a protest from a body that was nearly out of strength.
He clutched his stomach, rubbing it as if he could calm his churning insides. With every minute, the emptiness seemed to wring his gut. The hunger rose to his throat, becoming a bitter taste that he could barely tolerate.
"I'm so hungry… I need to find food," he whispered, his voice weak and sad.
He slowly climbed down from the cart, continually looking around.
And as he walked, he was amazed. Tall buildings, glittering lights, and vehicles racing each other on the road, leaving behind a medley of horns. The air was thick with smoke, sharp to the nose, and strange compared to the fresh breeze he grew up with.
"Wow… the houses here are so big," he muttered to himself. His innocent voice revealed his youth—a child seeing the chaotic form of the city for the first time.
"Grookk!" his stomach rumbled again, louder this time.
As he walked, he spotted a few children surrounding a trash can, picking up and eating leftover food that had been thrown there. He swallowed hard, his throat dry as he watched their every bite.
He approached them and asked, almost whispering, "Why are you eating from the trash?"
"We don't have parents anymore. We just wander here and look for food that others throw away," explained one child, taking a bite of leftover chicken resting on old styrofoam.
"Want some?" another one offered, handing over the remainder with a smile.
Renzo hesitated. He was repulsed, his brow furrowed, and he wanted to turn away. But the hunger was so intense, his knees were shaking, and his stomach wouldn't stop churning. He had no choice but to accept.
On the first bite, his chest tightened with shame and doubt. But as he chewed, he closed his eyes and exclaimed, "Hmm… it actually tastes good."
A moment later, he noticed another large trash can by a post across the street. He quickly walked over and peered inside. His eyes widened when he saw a styrofoam container with leftover noodles (pansit).
He smelled it first. "It's not spoiled yet… this is still good," he told himself, eagerly.
He immediately devoured the noodles, barely chewing, and rummaged through the trash again until he found a plastic bottle with some water left inside. He drank it down without hesitation.
Finally, somehow, he was full. But with every step he took on the street, the fear lingered. Behind his full stomach, his safety remained starved.
As Renzo continued to walk along the roadside, he noticed several children sitting on the sidewalk. Some were kneeling, with dirty hands outstretched, and cans or plastic containers in front of them. They were begging for coins from passersby.
"Mister/Ma'am… even just one peso, please…" a young child, almost his age, softly pleaded.
Some people helped, while others hurried past as if they saw nothing. Still others scowled and walked far around them as if they were obstacles.
Renzo stopped. He stared at those children, feeling a heaviness in his chest. It was like seeing himself in them—all of them hungry, all of them street children.
"They're begging… maybe I can do that too," he murmured to himself.
He looked at his own hands. Dirty, trembling, and he felt reluctant to offer them to others.
He was ashamed. But he remembered his churning stomach and the temporary relief the leftover noodles provided. It wasn't enough.
He slowly approached the group of children who were begging. He sat beside them, and for the first time, he stretched out his hand.
But as he did, he felt the pang of shame and fear—fear that no one would notice him, and shame that at such a young age, here he was, competing on the street just to have something to eat.
Renzo's hand was still trembling as it remained outstretched toward the passersby. He felt awkward, especially since not a single person was paying attention.
Others just shook their heads. Some hurried so fast they nearly stepped on him.
He lowered his head, almost wanting to give up. But a girl beside him smiled. "Don't be shy. You just have to get used to it. When they see you're hungry, they'll give you something."
Renzo was surprised. "I-is that true?" he asked softly.
"Of course," the girl answered, lifting the can she held, which rattled with a few coins. "See, I still manage to save something. Enough to buy bread later."
He slowly nodded. And as he stretched out his hand again, an old woman stopped and handed him two pesos. His eyes widened, as if he couldn't believe it.
"Thank you!" he nearly shouted, then looked at the child beside him.
"See! I told you," the girl chimed in, also happy for him.
A few hours passed, and Renzo learned to follow their rhythm—walking around where there were many people, asking for coins, and saying thank you even for a small amount.
"What's your name?" the girl he had met asked.
"R-Renzo… yours?"
"Julia. I live here on the street with them," she said, pointing to a group of three children lying on cardboard. "If you want, you can stay here too. So you won't be alone."
Renzo paused. There was a mix of sadness and fear in his heart. But along with it was a strange lightness—because it was the first time someone had offered him company again, even if they were just street children.
"Thank you, Julia," he replied softly, smiling.
And on his first night on the streets, he lay on old cardboard, clutching a few coins and a piece of bread. Beside him were his new companions—all children, all wounded by hunger and loss.
But despite everything, he felt a little warmth. The warmth of camaraderie, even in the middle of the cold street.