I was not in a particular hurry, but closed lifts seem to do it to us. I tapped my foot as the lift doors finally closed, waiting to reach the ground floor.
A few of us were crammed inside — strangers sharing a tiny metal box for a few seconds. Most of us stared at the numbers above the door, counting floors like prisoners counting days.
The lift hummed and groaned, stopping at almost every floor on the way down. With each stop, someone stepped out, and someone new stepped in, like a constantly changing cast in a very short play.
On the next floor, a young man walked in, mumbling to himself. At first, I thought he was talking on his phone, but then I noticed there were no earbuds. He was rehearsing something — a speech, perhaps, or maybe a college exam.
Two floors later, a tired-looking mother stepped in with a toddler clinging to her leg. The child let out a small wail, and she gave a weak, embarrassed smile to the rest of us. Her face carried the exhaustion of sleepless nights and unending days.
On the 1st floor, an elderly gentleman entered, clutching a battered file to his chest as if it contained his whole world. He pressed the ground floor button which was already pressed. He didn’t meet anyone’s eyes. But his shoulders, stooped and tense, told us enough about the weight he was carrying.
The doors opened when we reached the ground floor. We all spilled out into the lobby and went our separate ways, never speaking a word to each other.
As I walked away, I couldn’t help but wonder.
What speech was the young man rehearsing?
What battles was the mother fighting?
What was inside that old file that the elderly man was clutching?
We pass hundreds of people every day.
Strangers in lifts, buses, queues — names we’ll never know, lives we’ll never fully see.
But for a few brief moments, our stories intersect.
Everyone has a story. Some just need to be told.
***