You Can Trust Us (You/Fifth Harmony)

Chapter 1

This isn't the first story I've written, but it's the first one I've published. Anyway, I'd really appreciate it if no one copied this. Okay? Thank you. Enjoy.

Chapter 1

Your POV

So, it’s right around midnight in San Francisco, California. I’ve been awake since six a.m. and am far from sleepy. As soon as I woke up, I left the house and walked around the neighborhood. I live in the Mission District, so it’s kind of rough and crowded around, but I don’t mind. It’s home to me.

Anyway, after a couple of hours, I went to a park and played soccer with some friends. Most of them were guys, and most of the girls just stood by to watch us bash against each other. It was pretty fun. Afterwards, we split up into about two or three separate groups and did our own thing.

The group I hung with decided to goof around. In this neighborhood, goofing around means walking around doing whatever the hell we want. I won’t go into specifics, because I don’t really feel like it. At around ten p.m., we went to an underground rock concert, which is where I find myself now, at midnight. Actually, I’m just about to leave, because I’m starting to get tired.

“Guys”, I half-shout over the music. “I’m heading home.”

“Already?”, my friend Eva questions.

“Sorry”, I answer. “It’s been a long day.”

“Need a ride?”, my best friend Raul asks.

“Nah, I can walk.” That’s my main method of transportation in this part of the city. When I go elsewhere, I take Bart.

“Alright”, Raul concedes, and gives me a friendly hug. “Stay safe, chica dulce.”

I smile at his nickname for me, the Spanish translation of sweet girl.

“Si”, I promise him, which means yes. And then I weave through the crowd and walk out the door.

The house I’ve been living at for the past four months isn’t far from where I start my walk. But I’ll take my time getting there. My so-called foster parents will likely be passed out drunk when I get home, and won’t remember me being gone in the morning. I know it sounds crappy. It is crappy. They don’t care, they’re not people who should be taking care of a teenager, and it sucks. That’s why I’m almost never home. And they almost never notice.

As I slowly make my way to the drunkard’s paradise, I pass by now-closed restaurants and very few people walking around. I’ve always loved living here. In San Francisco, I mean. I’ve lived here in San Francisco’s Mission District-or, for short, the Mission-my entire life. I used to live here with my Mom and Dad, right up until five years ago, when they were killed in an accident. They didn’t have any family besides me, so Social Services put me in a foster home. It didn’t last. I’ve spent the last five years in seven homes. For one reason or another, none of them lasted.

Within fifteen minutes, I’ve reached the small house on a quiet street in the dark, lit only by a lone streetlight. I don’t really want to go inside, but I’m so goddamn tired.

So I walk up the door and go inside.

And this, I realize as I see two dark, stooping figures in the living room in what seems like the middle of an argument, is a mistake.

“Where have you been?”, my foster mom slurs. He sounds surprised, like she’s just now realized that I’ve been gone.

“Um…”, I hesitate. “Out.”