Portrait of a Woman Under a Bus Station

Yesterday, I had dinner at a taco shop near where my lesson is in Carrollton. I had just finished a long conversation with my guitar tutor about how I’ve grown to love bittersweet songs—the kind that say everything about ordinary life, yet overflow with longing and unresolved pain.

I told him I want to write songs of my own. Maybe even become a singer-songwriter. He encouraged me, and even came up with a beautiful tune for my new piece—I call it “Green Dinosaur.” :)

Anyway, the taco shop felt incredibly authentic. None of the staff spoke much English, so I used Google Translate to communicate. It reminded me of my trip to Cancún. Something about the language barrier made it feel more real. A soccer game was playing on the TV, the Mexican national team. The anthem was playing, a massive flag unfurled across the field. Strangely, even I felt a bit of pride watching it. I wondered then if patriotism or tribalism is really just a built-in way to feel less alone on this little blue planet we call Earth.

On my way out, I was approached by a woman—homeless, I think. She wore a mask, maybe to cover something on her face, maybe just out of habit. She asked if I had $17 for a motel room for the night. I declined, politely, as I usually do when someone asks for money on the street.

But as I drove away, something came back to me. Seven years ago, in New York City, I was waiting for the subway with a friend when a young man suddenly collapsed from a seizure. People rushed to help, but the train doors opened in front of us, and without thinking, we stepped inside. I looked back as the train pulled away and saw him still trembling on the ground. I didn’t help. I wanted to. But I walked away.

That same feeling hit me again—sharp, cold, familiar. I realized I might regret walking away from her too. So I pulled over, searched for the nearest Chase ATM, and drove ten minutes to get there. Every U-turn and red light twisted deeper into my chest. I didn’t fully understand why I needed to help her, but I kept telling myself: if she’s gone when I get back, that’s okay. At least I tried.

Still, I knew the truth. I had said no the first time, just like I did in New York. I had turned away. And maybe this time, I just wanted the chance to turn back.

I got the money and drove back to the taco shop. With my precise engineer’s intuition, I scanned the street and spotted a woman standing under the bus stop sign. That must be her, I thought. I wasn’t entirely sure, but the closer I walked, the more certain I became—it was the same woman who had asked me for help.

She pulled her mask down slightly as I approached. I handed her a $20 bill.

“I didn’t have any cash on me earlier,” I said. “So I drove to the nearest ATM. I’m sorry I said no when you asked. I really didn’t have anything on me at the time.”

She looked up at me, eyes soft behind the mask. I couldn’t make out everything she said with all the noise on the street, but her face lit with quiet surprise, a kind of hushed gratitude that said more than words could. I did hear her say, “You really didn’t have to go out of your way to help me.”

I nodded, but something in me cracked open. I felt tears beginning to run down the corner of my eye. Maybe it was the wind. Maybe it was the car noise by the station. Or maybe it was something else. Oh god, why am I so dramatic, I thought, wiping the corner of my right eye with my ring finger like a character in a Korean drama. The wind tugged at my hair as I pushed it back behind my ear.

“What’s your name?” she asked. She wasn’t the kind of homeless person you’d expect to see. She looked composed, even tidy. Her face suggested she was in her forties or fifties, and her eyes still carried a trace of hope—clear, alert, untouched by the kind of numbness that often settles in after too much time on the street. She didn’t strike you as someone who had been homeless for long, or someone who had given up on life.

“Rufus,” I shouted through the rush of wind and passing cars.

“Thank you, Rufus. Really. God bless you, young man. Thank you for helping me.”

I smiled as I turned around and walked back to my car. I thought again, Damn it, I’m being so dramatic, wiping tears from my face. But they stopped the moment I got inside.

I guess I wanted to believe I wasn’t the woman waiting under the bus station, hoping someone would stop and help. Deep down, I knew how she felt. Because right now, I’m also waiting—standing under some invisible station—desperately hoping someone might come up to me. Not with a twenty-dollar bill, but with a kind of salvation I no longer know where to find.

I kept picturing her: begging for help from strangers who didn’t want to be bothered, asking not just for money, but for support. And in return, receiving a polite enough “No.” Eventually left standing alone at the bus station, unsure where to go next. Whether she now had enough for a motel, or a meal.

Maybe she tricked me. Maybe not.

But when I saw her again, she was still there.

Still waiting.

Sincerely.

Waiting for the bus to take her somewhere she could call shelter. Maybe even home.

I never thought I’d be the kind of person to hand out money like that—especially not to someone who seemed homeless. I had always believed the stereotypes. Drugs. Laziness. The usual excuses to look away and keep walking. Why can’t they just get a job?

But the more I thought about her waiting at that stop and that young man who collapsed years ago in that subway station,

the more I felt it.

Everyone is the same, no matter how much they know and own, or how much they don’t know or lack.

We are all, in our own ways, desperately lonely—trying to make it through this lifetime we both cherish and wish could last forever.

Each of us is just trying to anchor ourselves somewhere, to find a place where we belong.
The gravity of the earth can only hold us so far.
The truth is, most of us are floating, hoping someone will walk up and say,
“You have me now. I’ll be your gravity from here on.”

But instead, we drift—untethered in the noise and cruelty of a world that rarely slows down long enough to notice us.

—

I should have helped.

I should have helped everyone who needed help.

Because now, I’m the one who hasn’t been helped.

No one has come to rescue me.

And maybe no one ever will. 

What do I really have?

A car. A house. A job. A few friends to eat dinner with. Some parties to have fun at and some TV shows to pass time through.

But strip all of that away, and what’s left?

Just a person. Like her. Struggling to survive on this planet.

Survive the hunger of some kind.

Survive the hunger of loneliness, the hunger of being unseen.

We are all waiting—for a stranger to approach us without judgment.

Because we want to believe, just once, that someone can reach us.

That we still have company in this world.

That we are not alone.

That we are not being punished for something we don’t remember doing.

That maybe we haven’t yet used up all our chances at warmth.