You enter the house and try not to feel surprised as you survey your surroundings. Your dad had been quick; almost everything's gone. All the furniture is gone, the electronics ... you climb the stairs and swing open the door to your room. Well, there's a few clothes left, but not many. Honestly, who does he think he is, doing this without having even asked for your permission? It's a good thing you had gone shopping today, because otherwise he might have cancelled your credit card.

You look around your room. There's really not much left. The bed and dresser are gone. You raid your walk-in closet to find a few shirts, a few pants, a couple of shoes, and an open suitcase with your school uniform on it. On top of it is a few extra change your dad must have had, with a note that simply says 'Food'.

So first, he leaves you a note telling you the address of your new house - which you will most likely be living alone in - and then gives you this much money for food? Irritated, you kick the suitcase, an action that immediately backfires on you. You wince as your toe begins to throb and, ignoring the already dull pain, stuff everything you can into the suitcase. 

Is this really all you have left? It doesn't really hit you fully until now. Your dad had gotten rid of your favorite Calvin Klein jeans. On top of that, he had sold your Prada boots and an Oscar de la Renta dress. That money had all gone to him. Your clothes, his money. You try to  tone down your anger as you zip closed the suitcase and drag it down the stairs. You try not to look at the bare walls and empty rooms as you leave the house. Don't look back. Don't look back.

But you can't help it; of course you look back. This is your home, your privileged home, and it had been taken away from you so suddenly. Sighing as your stare at the grand ceiling and the stainless floors, you close the front door shut behind you and trudge onward to your new home.

Looking down at the note your father had written you, you try to imagine where this house could be. It can't be as gorgeous as the one you have - or had - now, could it? You don't even recognize this address, and you feel pretty stupid walking the streets with a huge Louis Vitton suitcase in your hand. The city ... you have to get to the city. Maybe people there could tell you where this house would be.

Your feet are starting to hurt, and the city is still far. You push yourself until, finally, you reach downtown. You have never had to walk this far in your life before, and right now it's a numb sort of pain, but you know that the next day, every part of you will be sore. How long has it been? An hour? Still trying to maintain your cool composure, you heavily walk forward and cross the street.

A person ... which person should you ask? There are so many people here, and you're suspicious of all of them. They all look so ... out of your class. Is it rude to think that? It might be.  But you've never gone into this part of the city before. This is different. This is ... it's a mess. Graffiti line the walls and trash decorate the already filthy streets. Homeless men sit by alleys warming themselves up with their thin clothes as busy people breeze by them with upturned noses. Do you look like that? You don't want to. But ... it's hard. It's hard to admit that you could be categorized as someone like that.

"You might want to be careful where you look," someone says. You turn around, startled, to face a young man with bright, eye-catching blond hair. He has sweet features, but his hair ... what kind of guy is he? Who dyes their hair like that these days? It's obvious it's not natural. He gives you a small smile and nods at the luggage you've set down beside you. "Someone was reaching for the front pocket."

"What?" you burst out as you scramble to open the front pocket of your suitcase. It's still there ... everything is still there. Thankfully. "I ... thank you," you breathe out.

"Yeah," he grins, his eyes twinkling with amusement. He must have noticed how out of place you feel, because he steps forward and starts another conversation. "Do you need help finding anything?"

"Uh," you hesitate, before pulling out the paper with the address on it. Oh, what the heck. It's not like you'll ever meet this crazy guy again anyway. "I need help finding where this goes," you say. He stares at the address before squinting at the street.

"Oh, that's really far from here. You weren't planning on walking, were you?"

You blush. He had seen right through you. But what could you say? You have money, but it's not enough for taxi fare and food. You don't know what to do, especially since it's obvious that you are wearing brand name clothes and carrying an expensive bag. Telling him you lack money would seem shallow. Before you can reply, however, he casually reaches into the pocket of his baggy hoodie and pulls out his wallet. "Here," he says, giving you money for what seems to be the taxi fare. "Take it," he prods.

"I can't ... no," you reply, although it sure is tempting to receive it. But you have your pride.

"I'm giving it to you," he states, and with that he takes your hand and presses the crumpled bills to your palm. Slowly, your fingers close around the money. Forget pride. By the end of the day, you won't have much left of it anyway. 

"Thanks," you say as he flags a taxi. It stops right next to you, and as the driver impatiently waits for you to get in, you give the stranger one last, grateful smile.

He waves at you as you get into the car, and right before you leave, he shouts, "No problem!"