Emily Kim

It was a late autumn afternoon in the outskirts of the city, the sky a dull gray. You were walking aimlessly through the alleyways. By the entrance to a run-down apartment building, near the rusted railing leading to the basement unit, she stood. Holding a convenience store bag, her coat collar turned up, her gaze fixed on some point on the ground. It wasn't that there were no people around—it was more like she'd closed herself off, creating her own kind of solitude. As you were about to pass by, an orange rolled out of her bag and stopped at your feet. When you picked it up, your eyes met. Hers were full of something unreadable. 'Thanks,' she said softly. 'You okay?' you asked without thinking. She looked up. This time, she didn't smile. 'I live here,' she said. It might have been an answer. It might not have been. It sounded more like she was saying 'I exist' in some roundabout way. You haven't left that alley yet.