Photo: “Alone” , by Mohamed Mahmoud Hassan
Last night we were at the mall. It was a little past seven, that in-between hour when daylight starts to lose its hold and the first artificial glow takes over. The sky reflected the last streaks of sunset—faint, lavender, almost shy—and the air had that soft hum that belongs to early evenings in public places: neither loud nor silent, just human.
We sat on a wooden bench across from the small fountain that pretended to be a square. The list for dinner was long, so we waited, leaning back, unhurried. From the café behind us came the hiss of the espresso machine, the smell of cinnamon and roasted coffee mingling with something buttery—croissants, maybe. Teenagers with matching hoodies passed in clusters; couples strolled hand in hand; someone’s shopping bag brushed the floor with a soft rustle.
I remember thinking how ordinary it all was—how these tiny, unremarkable moments hold entire lives within them. The air was filled with fragments of people: the faint scent of someone’s perfume as they walked by, the flash of a smile, the rhythm of shoes clicking on tile. And in the midst of all this motion, I felt strangely still, like an observer of a small, glowing world.
And then I saw her.
An older woman — she might have been in her late seventies or perhaps 80 — elegantly dressed. Head high, tailored black trousers, and a black long-sleeve top. She was wearing heels, not high, but mid-heeled pumps. Over her top, a piece of costume jewellery: a necklace that caught a little glint of light. Her hair was short, white, styled — a bit like Jane Fonda’s iconic era, only quieter, steadier. I think it took a good 3-4 minutes as she walked past us. I felt my heart breaking and I was not sure why. Maybe I saw it in her eyes or maybe I felt it, but I knew that that …..she was alone. Alone.
When was the last time you felt alone in a crowd? What would one small act of reaching out look like today for you?
Reflection: When Alone Is Not Just Physical
We had dinner, cheerful. My family and I swapped stories, savoured our plates, and moved on. In the morning, I forgot the mall, forgot the bench. But the image of her drifted back to me in the quiet hours of the night. I thought about her. I thought about myself. I thought about us — people. I thought about the journey of life and all that we understand while we’re doing it.
Philosophers sometimes write of solitude as freedom. Friedrich Nietzsche once wrote:
“No one can construct for you the bridge upon which precisely you must cross the stream of life, no one but you yourself alone.” Nietzsche
And I kept thinking: Alone. But how alone are we? How much of me do you see and how much of you do I see? Do you see me the way I see myself? Do I see you the way you see yourself?
I don’t really know the answer. I do not want to engage solipsism or what other philosophical views are on this subject. I want a practical perspective.
Communication and understanding
Back to the woman in black. What did I see in her? Grace. Beauty. Old age. But above all, I saw her alone feeling. My heart broke because that was my image of her. I projected my own fears, my own self-awareness onto her silhouette
But… what if I had walked over and spoken to her? What if a simple “Good evening” or “May I join you for a moment?” had changed the moment? Perhaps the way I perceived her would have stayed the same. Perhaps not. Maybe I would have found that she had a family, a purpose, a laugh as rich as the necklace she wore. Maybe she would have told me why she came out tonight, on her own. Maybe she was celebrating something. Maybe she had lost something.
The point: The way we see is not always the way others are. We all carry private histories. We all carry unspoken chapters.
Do you see me the way I see myself? Do I see you the way you see yourself? These are questions that we should all think about. In the light of so many social problems, of so many differences in our society, on matters of gender, ethnicity and so many other differences, we should try to understand “otherness”. We are all prejudiced and have our own stereotypes. Some less then others, but we do have them, because who we are is conditioned by our experiences.
We overlay others with our assumptions, our stereotypes, our fears. Whether we admit it or not, we do. But maybe — maybe there is something tender in choosing a different path.
Example 1: The Midnight Traveler
I remember being on a long lay-over in an airport years ago. I wandered into the late-night café by the gate. I spotted a young man — early-20s maybe — alone at a high-top table, ear-buds in, staring ahead at nothing in particular. The overhead lights were bright, the echo of rolling suitcases pitched into the background hum of jets. He seemed… disconnected.
My first thought was: He’s lonely. My second thought: He probably has a connecting flight. Maybe he’s excited to reach home, or maybe he’s running away from something.
I paused. I asked if he minded if I sat for a moment. He shrugged politely and gestured to the seat. We talked about travel, about the quirks of airports, about our favorite destinations and worst delays. He shared that he had left his hometown for a new job, that he missed his sister’s laugh, that he was trying to reshape his life.
When I left, he smiled. His shoulders seemed lighter. Not cured — but lighter. And I realised: In the middle of transit, in the middle of feeling alone, something small (a shared coffee, a shared moment) can anchor us.
Example 1: The Midnight Traveler
I remember being on a long lay-over in an airport years ago. I wandered into the late-night café by the gate. I spotted a young man — early-20s maybe — alone at a high-top table, ear-buds in, staring ahead at nothing in particular. The overhead lights were bright, the echo of rolling suitcases pitched into the background hum of jets. He seemed… disconnected.
My first thought was: He’s lonely. My second thought: He probably has a connecting flight. Maybe he’s excited to reach home, or maybe he’s running away from something.
I paused. I asked if he minded if I sat for a moment. He shrugged politely and gestured to the seat. We talked about travel, about the quirks of airports, about our favorite destinations and worst delays. He shared that he had left his hometown for a new job, that he missed his sister’s laugh, that he was trying to reshape his life.
When I left, he smiled. His shoulders seemed lighter. Not cured — but lighter. And I realised: In the middle of transit, in the middle of feeling alone, something small (a shared coffee, a shared moment) can anchor us.
Together While Alone
We may not know the ideal social structure that best facilitates happiness. But here’s what I believe: Even when our bodies are singular, even when our paths are uniquely ours, we are connected. We share this world. If we talk. If we see. If we pause.
When those feelings of alone rise — as they inevitably will — remember: you are part of a larger tapestry. You are one thread among many. Perhaps you will find comfort in the people around you who are, in their own way, also feeling alone. Alone but together.
And if tonight feels heavy, may you find one small light — a call, a walk, a smile — that reminds you the world is still reaching back.
And….tomorrow, maybe look up from your phone in a café. Offer a nod. Say hello. Notice someone. You might not know what it means to them — or to you — until later. Connection often begins quietly, in moments that look like nothing at all.
