Nina Larson and the $10 That Changed Everything Forever

Morning Rain and Cheap Coffee

The rain had that greasy kind of smell, the way it always did in the slums—like wet asphalt and boiled cabbage. I stood outside the convenience store, wrestling my umbrella shut when I spotted her again. Nina Larson. Same hoodie, same cracked phone screen, same blank stare like she was watching ghosts pass by.

She was crouched near the cigarette machine, fumbling with her backpack. I didn’t know why I noticed her so often—maybe because she wasn’t like the others. There was a calm in her, or maybe just the absence of fight.

“You alright?” I asked before I could stop myself.

Nina looked up like she was waking from a nap. Her blonde roots were dyed a faded teal, like she did it months ago with drugstore dye and never bothered again. Her eyes flicked from me to the wet pavement.

“Yeah,” she said, voice raspy. “Just trying to find my lighter.”

I didn’t smoke. But I did something stupid. I reached into my wallet and handed her a ten.

“For coffee or whatever,” I said. “I don’t know. You look like you could use a warm cup.”

She didn’t smile. She didn’t thank me. She just blinked.

We Talk About Nothing for Too Long

Later that afternoon, I saw her again. Same corner, same slump, but this time she had a paper cup in her hand and was tapping a beat on the rim with her fingers.

“You stalkin’ me?” she asked, one brow raised. Sarcastic. Sharp.

“Nah,” I said. “You’re just kinda hard to miss.”

That made her smirk. Barely. She gestured to the bench beside her with her chin, and I sat without thinking.

“You live around here?” she asked.

“Not really,” I said. “Just passing through. Got a buddy who owns the print shop.”

She nodded slowly like she didn’t care. “I live in that pile of bricks over there. Top floor. Don’t ask me how it still stands.”

I glanced at the crumbling tenement. Graffiti on the windows, broken satellite dish hanging like a tooth.

“How long you been there?”

“Two years, maybe three. Hard to keep track. Got on the aid list after my mom passed. Government sends just enough to not die.”

That sounded too real. I didn’t know what to say, so I just nodded.

“Name’s Nina,” she said suddenly.

“I know,” I replied, too fast.

She stared.

“From earlier,” I added quickly. “You said it when the cops were talking to you last week. I heard.”

“Creepy,” she muttered, but she didn’t get up.

Garbage Music and Soft Eyes

The third time we talked, it was on a Tuesday. She had one earbud in, nodding her head to some trash pop beat. When she saw me, she pulled it out and gave a half-shrug.

“You really got nothin’ better to do, huh?”

“I like bad music,” I said.

She handed me the bud. I listened. It was garbage. Some hyperpop remix of a sad girl song, with lyrics that sounded like they were written by a 13-year-old who just got dumped on Discord.

“It’s my comfort garbage,” she said, half-laughing. “It’s got that little girl rage, you know?”

I smiled. “Yeah, I get it. I had a Linkin Park phase when I was broke and miserable.”

She snorted. “Of course you did.”

The weird thing about Nina was she didn’t ask for anything. Not once. She didn’t try to guilt you, didn’t whine, didn’t spin sob stories like some of the others did to shake you down for cash.

“I used to write music,” she said, tapping her boot against the curb. “Before things got messy. Got a notebook somewhere, probably eaten by rats.”

“You still could,” I said.

She laughed again. “With what? My cracked-ass phone mic and trauma brain? Nah. People like me don’t make it out. We just become stories you tell your nice friends over dinner.”

That stuck with me.

A Quiet Goodbye, Maybe Not Forever

A week passed. No Nina.

I checked the corner, the bench, even the convenience store. Nothing.

Then, out of nowhere, on a Friday afternoon, I saw her across the street. She looked different—new hoodie, cleaner face, hair tied back. Still rough, but... lighter?

“Hey,” I shouted.

She turned, spotted me, and actually smiled this time.

“Yo! Big spender.”

“You disappeared.”

She crossed the street with a weird kind of bounce in her step. “Had a little windfall. Somebody gave me twenty for watching their dog. I actually ate a sandwich that had meat in it.”

I laughed. She did too.

“You doing alright?” I asked, meaning it.

She looked up at the sky like it held the answer. “Alright is a lot. But yeah, maybe. I might get into one of those community classes. They got art therapy or some shit.”

“That’s good.”

“Yeah. And, uh... thanks again for that ten. I bought a hot coffee and a lighter. And... I dunno. Just felt human for a minute.”

We stood there, traffic buzzing around us, life just stumbling by.

“You still write?” I asked.

She looked at me, then pulled something from her hoodie pocket. A folded-up napkin with scribbles all over it.

“Garbage lyrics,” she said. “But they’re mine.”

“Keep writing,” I said.

“I might.”

And then she turned, walked back into the crowd, earbuds in, head bobbing to her trashy little anthem. I watched until she vanished behind a bus. I never saw her again.

But I kept that napkin.