Not that anyone ever asks anymore. It’s been months since I’ve heard my own name come out of someone else’s mouth. Out here, you’re not really a person. You’re just… part of the scenery. Something to step over, walk past, avoid. But I wasn’t always like this.

Two years ago, I had a job. Construction. Good work, steady pay. Not rich, but I could keep the lights on, get my daughter her school shoes, send a little to my mother. Then I hurt my back on site—three herniated discs. They let me go “until I could come back,” but you know what that means.

The pain got bad. Real bad. Couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t think straight. I started taking pills. At first, just what the doc gave me. Then more. And stronger. One thing led to another. My savings ran out. I missed rent. My girl’s mom moved out, said she couldn’t watch me fall apart anymore.

I told myself I’d bounce back. Just a couple weeks on the street, that’s all. But a couple weeks turned to months, and now I don’t even know how long it’s been. Time doesn’t move the same out here. Days blur together like sidewalk chalk in the rain.

What gets to me most isn’t the cold. Not the hunger. Not even the shame. It’s the way people pretend I’m not real.

Every morning, I sit on this same corner—Gravier and S Rampart by the bus stop. People pour by in suits, uniforms, jogging gear. Some wear earbuds, some hold phones up to their faces, talking like the world is on fire. And me? I’m just background noise.Sometimes I try to make eye contact. Not for pity—just for a reminder that I still exist. Most of the time, they look through me. Past me. Like I’m a piece of trash someone forgot to sweep up.

A kid once tugged at his mother’s sleeve and pointed at me. She jerked his hand down so fast you’d think he’d touched a stove. “Don’t stare,” she whispered, like I was contagious.

I wanted to tell her, It’s okay. I was someone’s kid once too.

You start to feel like a ghost. Like maybe you died a long time ago and no one told you. Like you’re stuck here, haunting a sidewalk that never leads anywhere.

I don’t even ask for money anymore. People see the sign and think I’m begging. 

But it just says: "Still here." Because that’s all I want someone to notice. That I’m still here. Still breathing. Still human.

Some nights I close my eyes and imagine someone stopping. Just stopping. Maybe asking, “How’d you end up out here?” Not with judgment, just… curiosity. Maybe even kindness.

But mostly, I dream about hearing my name again.

Just once.

Just to remember that I still have one.