The World Keeps Turning

 Just after noon, I was about to head out for my third walk of the day. The hunger gnawed at my stomach, a constant reminder of the two weeks I’d spent with barely any food or money. Payday was still five days away, and with every passing hour, I felt myself slipping further into exhaustion, frustration—despair. The will to keep going was fading fast.

I shoved my AirPods in, took a deep breath, and stepped out the door. Across the road, an elderly couple clung to each other. Or so I thought. The moment my door slammed shut, the woman’s face turned toward me, her mouth moving frantically. I couldn't hear her at first, the music still pulsing in my ears. But when I yanked my AirPods out, her voice cut through the silence like a knife.

“HELP! HELP! He’s trying to kill me!”

I froze. Then, slowly, I stepped forward, scanning them both, trying to decipher what was really happening. They were grappling, yes—but it was the woman restraining the man, not the other way around. He wasn’t lashing out or trying to hurt her. If anything, he looked defeated, broken. Our eyes met, and in that instant, his fight was gone. His shoulders slumped, his gaze fell to the pavement.

I placed a firm but calm hand on his shoulder and, in the steadiest voice I could manage, asked the woman what was going on.

She explained that he was on day release from St. Mary’s, the mental health hospital just around the corner. He was allowed out for lunch—but he had no intention of returning.

I turned to him. “Is that true?”

His voice was barely a whisper. “Yes. I can’t go on anymore. I can’t go back to that place.”

I nodded. “I understand,” I said gently. “So what’s your plan now?”

His answer chilled me. “I’m going to the train tracks.”

I forced myself to stay calm. “That’s not much of a plan, mate. Plus, think of the poor train driver—how’s he going to feel?”

For the first time, he looked at me properly. That thought hadn’t even crossed his mind.

His voice cracked. “I can’t go back. It’s too late now.”

The desperation in his eyes hit me like a gut punch. My grip on his arm softened, shifting from restraint to reassurance.

We sat on the low wall opposite my house. I asked him his name. Alan. He was 74. No family, no friends, no money, no future. He had lost the will to live. He wasn’t violent, just utterly, profoundly lost. Pauline—the woman who had been holding onto him—insisted we take him back to the hospital immediately, but the moment she mentioned it, he stiffened, scanning for an escape route. I knew dragging him back wasn’t the way. Instead, I suggested we sit for a bit and just talk.

To my relief, he agreed.

A neighbour walked past, raising an eyebrow at the sight of us. I explained the situation as discreetly as I could, and to his credit, he stayed. His name was John. Another presence. Another reason for Alan not to run.

Pauline left to get the crisis team, asking me to stay with him. So I did. For thirty minutes, I sat beside Alan and did what I could. I told him it wasn’t too late. That he still had time, that running would only make things worse. I played the guilt card—how would I feel if I let him go and something happened? How would I ever forgive myself? “If you run, I’ll have to chase you and pin you down,” I joked, flashing a smirk. “I don’t fancy your chances.”

A flicker of something—maybe even a smile—crossed his face.

I didn’t know if everything he told me was true. But if it was, I understood why he wanted to escape. If I were in his shoes, maybe I’d want out, too.

When the crisis team arrived, they thanked me profusely as they led Alan away. Before he left, we hugged, and I told him how brave he was. Pauline and the nurses called me a lifesaver. John, my neighbour, shook his head in admiration. “You should do this for a living,” he said.

For a brief moment, I felt valued. Like I mattered. But honestly, I just did what anyone would do.

I continued on my walk, my thoughts a whirlwind. As the adrenaline drained away, the weight of the moment hit me. I hadn’t been expecting a life-or-death situation—just a simple walk. The tears came fast, unstoppable.

By the time I got home, I wanted to tell someone, to share the story. But there was no one to tell. The hunger was still there, gnawing. The exhaustion, heavier than ever. I made myself a plate of plain rice, ate in silence, and went to bed.

The world kept turning.