Rain Soaked Shoes
She never thought homelessness would happen that way. It wasn’t drugs, or laziness, or even a fight—just a letter. A knock. A warning. She knew the FBI would come pick her up. No timeline. No answers. Just, “Don’t leave.” In the meantime, everything froze. Her accounts. Her job, gone. No income. No help. No one to call. She was in legal limbo—and then, just like that, she was on the street. Three months. She lived like a ghost with an expiration date. Waiting for the government to come claim her, while the world just…moved on. Outside libraries. Laundry mats. In emergency rooms just long enough to stay warm before security kicked her out. She applied for shelters, but the waitlists were months long and the beds filled fast. She was given pamphlets, advice, and nothing she could actually use. And no one really understood. Because in their eyes, she wasn’t just homeless—she was waiting to be arrested. What do you say when someone asks what you do for work and the truth is: “I’m wait...