The bass vibrates through my bones before I even step onto the stage. My name flashes in neon, the crowd roars, hands reaching for me like I’m something more than I am. I should feel powerful. Instead, I feel like I’m drowning. This is my life. A different city every night, thousands screaming my name, my beats controlling their highs.

The dust settles on the street outside the shelter, kicked up by restless feet. People come and go, looking for answers no one has. I sit on the thin mattress they gave me, listening to the low murmur of conversations, the occasional sobs muffled against tired hands. My son is outside, trying to find work—any work. I tell him not to take risks, not to trust strangers, but what choice do we have?

The mornings are still quiet in my neighborhood, but they carry a different weight now. It is not the kind of peace that comes from stability—it is the heavy silence of uncertainty. The election has passed, and the results have not brought relief, only more questions. The same faces remain in power, promising recovery, but for people like me, the numbers on paper mean little. The price of rice has not fallen. The electricity bill still makes my heart sink. The pension I worked for my entire life remains a joke.

The first time I met Danylo, he was leaning against the wall of a volunteer center, rolling a cigarette with steady hands. He looked up when I passed, his eyes catching mine in a way that made my steps falter for just a second. I had come to help organize supplies—medical kits, blankets, canned food. Anything to keep people alive. He was there for a different reason. A soldier waiting to return to the front, caught between two worlds: war and whatever remained of normal life.

It started with a man pacing outside my shop in Kampala, Uganda, hesitating like he couldn’t decide whether to come in or run. I see all kinds of people—thieves trying to sell stolen phones, desperate customers begging for impossible repairs, teenagers who just want to browse and touch things they can’t afford. But this man was different. He was well-dressed, not flashy, just neat. The kind of person who doesn’t usually look lost.

The wind here smells of salt and cold earth, pressing against the windows with a force that makes the glass tremble. I sit by the window, watching the grey sky settle over the sea, as I have done for many years. It is a quiet ritual, one that reminds me I am still here. I was born in a small house in Kópavogur, Iceland, before it became the town it is today. Back then, the streets were fewer, the nights darker, the winters harder.

I come from a small place in Scotland called Alexandria. On my doorstep is the gigantic Loch Lomond. I have been fishing there since I was a child. Usually, it's more of the smaller fish that I catch. But last week, I caught the biggest fish of my life so far. It was so heavy that it even broke my fishing rod. I was drenched in sweat after the catch, it was incredibly exhausting. It was a huge pike, over 20 kilos.

That night, I walked home alone, the air thick with the scent of the sea, but my mind still replaying the moment over and over. The shock in their eyes. The silence that followed. My mother’s forced smile, too tight, like the fabric of a dress that doesn’t fit. My sister’s hand tightening around her boyfriend’s, as if I had announced something dangerous. My uncle clearing his throat, looking at his plate as if he had just discovered something deeply fascinating about mashed potatoes.

Fixing cars was never the plan, but life doesn’t ask for permission. It moves forward, drags you along, and sometimes, if you’re lucky, drops you where you need to be. I was born and raised in Baku, a city that hums with the rhythm of both tradition and modernity. As a teenager, I spent hours locked in my room, headphones pressing against my ears, listening to everything from classical mugham to Western electronic beats.

The fish slipped from my fingers, landing with a dull thud on the dirt floor. The boy behind the counter laughed, shaking his head. "You’re too tired, Asha. You need rest." Rest. The word itself was a luxury. I wiped my hands on my dress and picked up the fish again, this time gripping it tightly. "Rest won’t feed my children," I said, handing over the crumpled shillings. "Maybe in another life."

It was a summer evening, the kind where the air is thick with the scent of thyme and salt, and the cicadas sing until your thoughts dissolve into the landscape. I live in Crete, Greece, and had been walking along the cliffs near Loutro, following a narrow path that I had known since childhood. Below, the Libyan Sea stretched dark and endless, the waves whispering against the rocks.

Mrs. Caldwell caught me humming in algebra again. She sighed, tapping her fingers on the desk. "Keep your focus on the equations, not your… performance." Snickers rippled across the room. I sank lower in my chair, my face burning. I hated school. Not just because of the math problems, but because every day felt like a test I hadn’t studied for. I didn’t talk the right way, dress the right way, believe the right way. My family’s name was a joke, our faith a punchline.

I grew up in a village where the Mekong runs slow, where my father planted rice and my mother sold herbs at the market. Life was steady, simple, but never easy. When the railway project began, everything changed. Our house stood where the new tracks were planned, and we were told to leave. The money they offered was small, not enough to rebuild the life we had.

The last tram had already left, and my phone was at two percent. Great. I pulled my coat tighter and started walking. The February air smelled like wet asphalt, the kind of cold that slips under your skin and stays there. The streets weren’t empty, but they felt that way. A couple stumbled out of a bar, laughing too loudly. A cyclist sped past, music blasting from a speaker. I kept my head down and walked faster.

I remember the first time I stepped into Mahidharpura’s diamond market. The heat, the noise, the sheer energy of it all—it felt like standing in the heart of a storm. Men sat on sidewalks, crouched on low walls, velvet trays on their laps shimmering with wealth beyond measure. Deals were whispered, fortunes made or lost in the flick of a wrist.

At the wellness hotel in San Carlos de Bariloche, Argentina, I move through my shifts like a quiet current—setting up herbal teas, adjusting linen, refilling trays of dried fruit and nuts. The guests come here to unwind, to escape, to immerse themselves in an atmosphere of calm. But for me, working here is different. I’m not here to escape. I’m here to blend in, to be efficient, to make sure everything runs smoothly. Except I never really blend in.

I still remember the sound. A dull crack in the cold night air, then silence. No shouting, no cries—just the weight of it sinking into my bones. It’s been almost forty years, and yet I hear it most nights when I close my eyes. I was a border guard in the GDR, stationed at the Berlin Wall. In 1985, I followed an order, pulled a trigger, and ended a life.

It’s not the loneliness that gets to me. I’ve made peace with that. It’s the waiting. I live in Manila, Philippines—a country where marriage is forever, even when love is long gone. Eight years ago, I walked out of that house with nothing but a duffel bag and my daughter’s tiny hand in mine. Since then, I’ve worked three jobs, skipped meals so she wouldn’t have to, and learned how to fix a leaking pipe with YouTube tutorials.

The mornings in the Colombian countryside are quiet, except for the wind in the trees and the distant calls of birds. Our house, though old and worn, sits on a small piece of land surrounded by green. A year ago, I bought it cheap—nobody wanted it after the previous owner was murdered. But at forty-three, after a lifetime of scraping by, I wasn’t afraid of hard work. I just wanted a place for my wife, Natalia, and our son, Andrés, to call home.

Perfection is my standard. My kitchen runs like clockwork, every movement precise, every dish flawless. That’s why people come here—the critics, the celebrities, the powerful. Last night, in my three-star restaurant in Paris, the most powerful of them all dined at my restaurant. The French president and his wife.