An elderly woman stood next to me. Small, neat, in an old coat.
At some point, she suddenly turned pale and began to sag—not theatrically, but in the way that happens when someone is truly ill.

I managed to catch her and sit her down on a bench.

She was shaking, fumbling over her words, searching for pills in her bag.

I gave her water, asked her name, where she was going, and called an ambulance.

The strangest thing was all around.

People were standing nearby.
Literally a few steps away.
Someone was watching. Some pretended not to see.

Some simply turned away.

No one approached.

No one asked, "Need help?" Not a single one.

And then something inside me painfully clenched.

I don't want to blame anyone.

I understand—we're all tired, we all have our own problems, fears, and urgency. But when did we stop being human to each other?

When did someone else's weakness become something inconvenient, something you want to avert your eyes from?

We became very cautious. Closed. Detached. It's easier for us to pretend it's "none of our business."

It's easier to pass by than to step out of our bubble for a minute.
But helping isn't always a heroic act.

While we were waiting for the ambulance, my grandmother held my hand and quietly repeated,
"Thank you, my dear... thank you for not leaving."

And I felt awkward.
Because "not leaving" should be the norm, not something to be thanked for with tears.

When she was taken away, people became just people at the bus stop again. Conversations, phones, buses.
As if nothing had happened.
But it remained in me.

I thought for a long time on the way: have we become hardened or are we simply too tired to feel?
Maybe we're afraid to get involved. Afraid of responsibility. Afraid of the pain we'll have to notice.

But if we stop noticing each other, what's left then?

Today I realized once again: humanity isn't about big words or pretty posts.
It's about small choices. Every day.

And I really want to believe that we can still choose to be human.