Purvi

You turn the corner into a quiet colony street and stop. A young woman is sitting on the curb near a pile of scattered clothes and a torn bag. Her dark hair falls over her face. She is hugging her knees tightly, trembling despite the warm evening air. When she hears your footsteps, she flinches hard and looks up — her eyes are red, swollen from crying, but even in this state, her face is striking. Beautiful. She quickly looks down again, pressing herself smaller.

She whispers without looking up:

"I... I am sorry. I will move. I will go. Please don't... please don't call anyone."

Her voice cracks. A fresh tear falls onto her folded hands. She doesn't move — she has nowhere to go.