She stands in the cereal aisle, one child twisting in the cart beside the groceries, a baby balanced on her hip, two more tugging at her sleeves. Her hair is pulled back in a way that says she didn’t have time to think about it. Her eyes flicker between the price tags and the children, calculating more than dollars.
The line inches forward, and a man at the register suddenly raises his voice. His words come out sharp, louder than the moment seems to warrant. The checker blinks, startled, hands hovering uncertainly over the keypad. People in line shift their weight, avert their eyes, pretend to study the gum display. His face is flushed, his jaw tight, as if he’s been holding something in for far too long and this small misunderstanding has cracked it open.
At the edge of the parking lot, near the exit where the cars slow down, a man stands holding a cardboard sign. The letters— “Will work for food”—are thick and uneven, traced over more than once to make them readable from a distance. His coat is too thin for the weather, his shoes scuffed and splitting at the seams. Some drivers stare straight ahead, pretending not to see him. Others glance quickly, then look away, their faces tightening with something like discomfort or guilt. The light changes, the cars move on, and he remains where he is, as if rooted to that small patch of concrete.
What We Don’t See
We see moments, not histories. We see reactions, not reasons. And yet behind every ordinary scene, there are stories—countless, complicated, invisible stories—that could explain what we think we understand. We move through the world catching only the surface of things, unaware of the private battles, the sudden losses, the quiet heartbreaks, and the long, unseen journeys that shape the people around us.
Maybe the woman in the cereal aisle once had a life that felt almost like a fairytale. She married her childhood sweetheart, built a home with him, and welcomed four children into a world they thought they’d navigate together. Then one night, a car accident rewrote her future in a single phone call. Now she works a job that barely covers the bills, juggling grief and exhaustion and the relentless needs of four young lives. What we see is a frazzled mother comparing prices. What we don’t see is the love she lost, the strength she’s mustering, or the thousand small victories it took just to get everyone dressed and out the door.
Perhaps the man at the checkout counter isn’t angry at the checker at all. Maybe he’s just been given a final warning at work, the kind that makes your stomach drop. Perhaps the bills are piling up at home, and the tension has seeped into every conversation with his spouse. Or maybe last night ended with an ultimatum he doesn’t know how to meet. And now, in this fluorescent-lit moment, a small mistake at the register becomes the thing that breaks the dam. What we see is someone overreacting. What we don’t see is someone who feels like he’s running out of time.
And the man with the cardboard sign—maybe he wasn’t always standing on a street corner. Maybe he once wore a suit every day, managed a bank branch, and was trusted with people’s life savings. Then an accounting error—one he didn’t cause—landed on his shoulders. He lost his job, his reputation, and the career he’d spent decades building. His wife left, taking their children with her. Friends drifted away, unsure of what to say. What we see is a man asking for help. What we don’t see is how quickly a life can unravel, or how hard it is to rebuild when the world has already decided who you are.
And if we happen to be writers, these moments become something more. They become sparks. A glance, a gesture, a raised voice, a weary posture — all of it can open a door to possibility. Stories are everywhere, waiting in the corners of ordinary days, asking only that we pause long enough to imagine what might lie beneath the surface.
Because in the end, that’s what stories are: possibilities. Not certainties, not conclusions — just the endless branching paths of what might be true. No two lives unfold the same way, and no two imaginations will follow the same thread. But when we allow ourselves to wonder, even briefly, we soften. Our field of vision expands. We shift from judgment to curiosity, from assumption to understanding.
The next time someone catches your eye — in a grocery aisle, at a checkout counter, on a street corner — try looking twice. Not to invent a narrative you’ll cling to, but to remember that every person carries a history you cannot see. And if you are a writer, you may find that the world is offering you stories all the time, tucked quietly into the everyday, waiting to be told.