You don’t know 

He’s standing by the bus queue, not in it. He’s obviously scared of the pushing, eager crowd. He leans  every two seconds to see if he can make his way to the bus. But he can’t. People. 

“Poor soul!”

He must be over 40, easy. 

“What a coward!”

“What’s wrong with him?!”

A phobia. A disorder. Uneasiness isn’t patented by one. 

You don’t know. 
A grown lady in the metro. Sitting with an unevenly lined eyeliner. Scribbled over her eyelid, way above the eyelash line, trembling in making its way to the ends. Nails painted with loud, mismatching colours; a nail splashed with red, another pink, the thumb yellow. 

“Why does she have to do make up”

“Ugh! Gross.”

Her personal sense of style. Or her 3 years old daughter’s. 

You don’t know. 

Do you? 

Do you care to?

Do you want to? 

Do you have to?

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