Writers may be the only ones who face this problem, but I doubt it.

Watching the interaction unfold on the bus in front of me, I wasn’t so sure.

Tears fall. The woman shares her story. It’s so full of despair, full of shame, and full of loneliness. See me as human, she says. See me as more than zero.
 

There were a few young boys who lived near our house in Nakuru, Kenya. They’d often approach us when we were out buying groceries. And even though they didn’t speak the same language as us, they still managed to communicate. A simple gesture was enough.

The man doesn’t look too happy.

I nearly didn’t go back.

He was just doing his job.

An hour from now, the train will have a rather different group of passengers.

There are days where getting out of bed is the last thing you want to do.

They have no idea what they’re capable of.

“Will that lady just be quiet?” I think. “I’m trying to read.”