At first, it really was simple.
Every morning, I stopped by the same coffee shop on my way to work. It sat on the corner between my office building and a narrow street lined with dry cleaners, flower stands, and a newsstand that never seemed to open on time.
The barista knew my order before I reached the counter.
Medium latte, one pump of vanilla, no foam.
And almost every day, I saw him sitting by the entrance.
He always had the same old backpack beside him and the same quiet expression on his face. He didn’t hold out a cup. He didn’t ask for money.
He didn’t even look up at people the way some did when they were hoping to catch your eye. He just sat there, like he was trying to take up as little space in the world as possible.
For the first week or two, I only noticed him in passing. I would glance at him, then look away and tell myself the same thing most people do.
Someone else will help.
I’m in a hurry. I already donate. I can’t save everybody.
The truth was uglier.
I had become very good at walking past pain, especially if it threatened to stir up my own.
Then one morning, I came out of the shop carrying my coffee, saw him sitting there in the cold with his hands tucked into the sleeves of his worn coat, and stopped.
I went back inside and bought an extra coffee and a sandwich.