#streetreality
I went to the window
for a last puff of fresh air,
expecting nothing
but the quiet of night.
And there he was—
a man bent over our garbage,
phone light trembling in his hand
as he searched for food
or something like it.
Thirty meters.
Nothing more.
Close enough to touch a memory
I thought I’d buried.
Below him,
a monster-truck show packing up,
bright metal and roaring engines
pretending the world is loud.
Above him,
the cats didn’t even look twice—
just kept digging,
as if men in the dark
belong there.
And me?
I stood in the window,
smoke in my lungs,
salt in my eyes,
thinking:
I was him.
Once.
Not that far ago.
And something in me
wanted to go down,
to say “come inside,”
to give him warmth,
food,
a moment of being seen.
But I couldn’t.
It would hurt him.
And it would hurt me.
In that life,
kindness feels like a spotlight
you can’t bear.
So I stayed where I was,
puffing into the cold air,
crying quietly for a stranger
and for the ghost of myself
standing beside him.
A man in the garbage.
A man in the window.
Only luck,
and a few brutal choices,
separating the two.
And tonight,
for a breath,
they recognized each other.
Dec 8, 2025
Dec 8, 2025 at 9:41 PM UTC