your parents kicked you out of the house

Night. Cold asphalt hits my back through my thin T-shirt. The door slams behind me—the door to my home, which just now ceased to be mine. The glass in the hallway rattles from the force with which my father slammed it.

"I don't want your spirit here again! I said I bought this coffin on wheels, and I didn't listen! Now there's the traffic police, a ticket, fines, a disgrace all over the street! Get out!"

My mother's voice drowns out the door, breaking against the dull upholstery. I hear only fragments: "...where will he go... at night..." But the key turns firmly in the lock, without hesitation.

The backpack is the only thing I managed to grab. It contains my phone (with 5% battery), a pack of cookies, the keys to my motorcycle, which no longer exists, and some small change. I'm standing there in jeans and a sweatshirt, with sneakers on my bare feet. The light from my former window is fading.

Silence. Only a dog barks somewhere in the distance. And my knee aches unpleasantly—I managed to hurt it when the traffic cop pushed me toward his car while he was processing the "towing" order.

My phone vibrates in my jeans pocket. Mom. I hang up. Three seconds later – Dad. I hang up too.

The asphalt cools in minutes. The city sleeps, and I suddenly feel afraid, not because I've been kicked out, but because I have no plan, no money, not even a lighter to warm me up.

Ahead lies a dark street, and above me is a bare sky with low-hanging clouds. Just now I had a life: school, friends, my Yamaha... And now there's only me, this backpack, and complete uncertainty.

I'm standing on the side of the road, clutching my smartphone with a dying battery. Where should I go? I have only one desire: to find someone who understands. Or at least someone who won't kick me out.