The streets of Downtown Dallas transform after dark.

The day belongs to the well-dressed, the ones who carry themselves like they own the pavement, their polished shoes clicking in rhythm with their ambition. But when night falls, Elm Street hums a different tune—one I’ve come to know too well.

Neon spills onto the sidewalks, painting reflections in rain-damp puddles. A man in a crisp suit leans against the wall outside Morton’s, half-listening to his friend’s drunken bragging about closing some deal. Across the street, the amber glow of a café bathes its patio in warm light, where couples sip wine and lean into each other’s whispers—intimacies I once knew but can barely remember now.

I sit on a bench at Rosa Parks Plaza, watching it all unfold. The statue of Rosa Parks stands poised as ever, still and certain, her bronze eyes locked forward as if she sees something just beyond the horizon. I wonder if she sees me, too, my struggle, the pain I try to hide behind careful observation. I’ve been coming here for weeks now, telling myself it’s just to people-watch. But I know the truth.

Being around people keeps the silence away.

The silence of my apartment.

The silence in the text messages that once buzzed with her replies.

A woman in a red coat hurries past, her purse clutched tight against her ribs. Her heels click in sharp, deliberate beats, and she moves like someone who knows what it means to be cautious. When she passes a group of businessmen spilling out of the steakhouse, one of them smirks and calls after her.

“Hey, sweetheart, where you headed?”

She doesn’t even glance at him.

His smirk falters, and he mutters something under his breath before turning back to his friends. I should say something. I don’t. She’s already gone, and I remain frozen, caught between outrage and apathy—the same paralysis that’s infected every part of my life lately.

Near the curb, a man lights a cigarette with shaking fingers. He doesn’t smoke it. Just holds it, lets it burn down like an offering to the night. The ember glows against the wind, a pulse of quiet defiance. I recognize something of myself in him—going through motions without purpose.

“Hey,” he says after a while, his voice scraping against the cold. “You got a light?”

I shake my head. “You already got one.”

He glances at the cigarette as if he forgot it was there. “Yeah,” he murmurs, then flicks the ash into the street. Our eyes meet for a moment—two men adrift in the same current.

From the shadows, another familiar face emerges. A figure in an oversized hoodie moves with practiced ease, weaving between pedestrians. His eyes dart back and forth, calculating, waiting.

“Hey, man,” he says when he reaches me. “You got a quarter?”

Always a quarter. Never more. It’s his signature, like a magician who only performs one trick.

I shake my head. “I don’t carry cash.”

He smiles thinly. “Shit, no one does.” Then he’s gone, already drifting toward another passerby.

The train hisses into the West End Station, its doors sighing open. The night commuters step off, some moving with purpose, others lingering as if unsure where to go next. A busker leans against the brick wall near the platform, plucking an old blues tune from a guitar that’s seen better days. His voice is rough, worn like the callouses on his fingers. A few people stop to listen. Most don’t. The melody catches in my chest—a song about losing something you can’t get back.

A commotion stirs near the station. Two cops stand over a man slumped against the wall, wrapped in an old Army jacket. One of them nudges his boot.

“Sir, you can’t sleep here.”

The man doesn’t move.

The cop sighs, louder this time. “Sir.”

After a long moment, the man stirs, slow and heavy like someone dragging himself out of deep water. His eyes blink open, unfocused, and he mumbles something I can’t hear.

“You can’t sleep here,” the cop repeats.

The man swats at him weakly. “Leave me alone.”

The second officer steps forward, his hand resting near his belt. “You can either move along or we take you in.”

“I ain’t done nothing,” the man grumbles, but his voice is thinner now, deflating. He knows how this goes.

The first cop crouches slightly, lowering his voice. “Come on, man. Let’s not make this harder than it needs to be.”

There’s no fight in him. They lift him to his feet, gripping his arms just tight enough to make sure he doesn’t sway. A minute later, they’re leading him toward the patrol car parked at the curb. I watch silently, wondering when I became the type of person who only watches, who never intervenes—when I started confusing observation with participation.

Across the street, the man with the cigarette watches, exhaling smoke he never inhaled. “Cold world,” he mutters, flicking the last of the burning stick into the gutter.

I look back at Rosa Parks. She hasn’t moved.

Maybe she’s seen worse. Maybe she’s still waiting for the world to change. Maybe she understands what it means to sit still when everything inside you screams to move.

The train doors slide open again, the overhead voice announcing, “This is the Blue Line. Final Destination…Rowlett Station.” I stand, bones aching from sitting too long, and step toward it. My reflection in the train window looks like a stranger—hollow-eyed, shoulders bent from carrying invisible weight.

The city hums, the lights flicker, and the night moves on.

I take my seat on the nearly empty train, watching downtown shrink behind me. Ahead lies my apartment—clean and cold, no dishes in the sink because there’s only one mouth to feed now. On the kitchen counter, the manila envelope waits, her lawyer’s return address sharp and accusing. Divorce papers I’ve been too cowardly to sign. Each day, I tell myself, “Tomorrow.” Each night, I return to Elm Street, seeking humanity in fragments, trying to remember what it feels like to belong to something.

The train picks up speed. I close my eyes and lean my head against the window, letting the vibrations remind me I’m still here, still moving, even when standing still.