You were young.

You were carrying more responsibility than your shoulders should have held.

You saw someone you believed had less than you, and you offered your last money without asking a single question that would have required him to defend his dignity.

You didn’t save my life with ten dollars.

You saved it by reminding me I still belonged to a world where a stranger could care.

I spent that night in the diner writing down your name because I knew that without writing it, I might later tell myself you were a story I had imagined.