Samantha slipped quietly out of the booming house. The music was too loud, the people were too drunk, the scene was too familiar. Samantha fumbled through her pockets for her car keys, only to remember they were comfortably sitting on the kitchen counter of a person who is friends with her friend. Samantha sighed to herself and just decided to walk, she didn't want to go back inside. Samantha slowly scuffed her feet to the rhythm of her heartbeats to pass the time. She thought about people, she thought about places, she thought about things, she thought about about how much she hated when people called her Samantha.

Sam had always been called Sam. Her mother started calling her that when Sam was only a month old; this bouncy newborn never seemed like a Samantha, her mother said. Her mother called her Sam to the day she died. Even in the cold, bleak hospital bed, the mattress groaning, ready to give in with every movement, Sam's mother called to her, talked to her, calling her Sam and nothing else.

Sam's dad, on the other hand, never called her Sam. She had been lucky he spoke to her at all. He was never one for conversations. After Sam's mother died, her dad stayed to himself, blaming Sam, like he did for everything. He cooped himself up in his musty study and hibernated there for eternity. Sam never really saw him after that day. She was seven.

Her foot caught a small pebble and sent it flying into the th, warm air. Sam gazed into the starless sky. She wondered where the stars went sometimes. It's like they're hiding from me, she always thought, only appearing for those who deserved them. A cool breeze whipped down the calm street. It was after midnight. Sam had lost track of time; she never really kept track of anything. School just happened, work just happened, friends just happened, life, just happened. At this moment, Sam had wished she had remembered to grab her hoodie. She missed the warmth.

Sam rubbed her arms gingerly and kept onward. She figured maybe someone would drive by this lonesome street at whatever time it was and find her and pick her up. Maybe, she thought, someone would kidnap her and force someone to care. She sighed at the thought. Tucking a piece of her long brown hair behind her ear, she crossed her arms and looked down the street. No cars where coming. Sam took the opportunity to walk in the street. Sam put her face toward the sky and closed her eyes. Imagining. Wishing. Hoping. Sam stopped walking. Stopped imagining. Stopped wishing. Stopped hoping. Sam sat, then lied down, spread eagle, on the warm gravel of this recently abandoned New York street. She let the cool breeze ripple through her. Her hair blew in the wind. Her eyes never opening. The warmth from the August road sifted through her back as the cool wind crept slowly into her stomach. Sam tried to block the feelings, the thoughts, the regrets.

"Sam?"