There’s a person sitting next to me, stressed out.
I know nothing about their problem, but I can see it—nothing but it.
A need burns inside me, consuming my thoughts.
It’s an indescribable yet irresistible urge. I feel drawn to them, as if I must hug them, tell them everything will be alright, and make it so—just by saying it.
But I am no angel, no witch, no hero.
This urge is mine alone. No one has asked for my help.
Helping wouldn’t be fair—not to them, not to me.
So I don’t.
Life goes on.
I hope they’re okay.