The red vinyl of my taxi seat sticks to my back like always. It’s not even noon yet, and the heat has already curled itself around my spine. The sweat collects under the plastic sheet my brother-in-law stretched over the driver’s seat years ago, thinking it would protect the leather. It protects nothing and collects everything — but I’ve grown used to it.

The store smelled of dry bread and pickled cabbage, like most shops here in the winter. I had only come in for some tea and sugar, but as I stood in line, waiting for the cashier to finish a slow conversation with the man in front of me, I felt a tap on my shoulder.

It started when I was 25. My hair began falling out—first in the shower, then on my pillow. It was horrifying, but I was prepared. My brother was bald by 30, my father the same. It ran in the family. Still, knowing didn’t make it easier. I tried everything—shampoos, vitamins, medication. Some helped, but the side effects weren’t worth it.

Twelve years ago, my life unraveled. My husband walked out, leaving me alone with our two young children. I was terrified, barely keeping up with bills, daycare costs impossible. That’s when someone recommended Gabriela. She was warm, kind, and quickly became part of our home. Without her, I would have drowned. I could work, provide for my kids, and they adored her.

Last night, my son came home late. His T-shirt was soaked in blood, but he moved without injury, his steps steady, his breath calm. I didn’t ask. Maybe I should have. Maybe it was my duty as his father. But I have lived too long in this township to believe that asking always leads to the truth.

The metro was packed, as always. I held my purse tight, one hand over the zipper, my body angled away from the crowd. After living in Medellín, Colombia, my whole life, I knew how to move in a packed train, how to spot a pickpocket, how to keep my guard up without looking like I was keeping my guard up.

I wake before dawn, when Shanghai, China, is still quiet. From my window, I see Pudong’s towers flickering like distant fires, but my world is far from that glittering skyline. I live in an old lane house in Hongkou, where the walls are damp in winter and summers press down thick. It’s enough. It’s mine.

For most of my 54 years, I worked alongside my husband and our children at the small hotel we ran, one of the very few on Mangaia, the second largest and southernmost island in the Cook Islands. The island, ancient and quiet, has always been a peaceful place, where life moves at its own pace. Geologists say it's 18 million years old, and though its history is vast, the population has gradually shrunk. Once home to 2,000 people, now there are fewer than 500 of us.

They didn’t want to let me in. The young man at the door looked me up and down, took in my frayed coat, my scuffed shoes, and made that polite but firm expression people make when they’re about to turn someone away. I laughed, maybe a little too loudly. “Do I really look that rough?” I asked. He hesitated. Maybe I smelled like turpentine again—I forget sometimes when I’ve been working in the studio all day.

The office hums with tension as we finalize next month’s issue. I work in the photo editorial department of a famous Italian fashion magazine, and today, we’re publishing our first AI-generated cover. Some are fascinated, others uneasy, but the decision is made.

The morning sun had not yet climbed over the hills when I stepped outside, the cool air still clinging to the earth. I picked up my uncle’s tools and slung them over my shoulder. He usually carried them himself, but after his injury last week, the responsibility had fallen to me. I didn’t mind. It made me feel useful. Important.

The jungle swallowed the light faster than I expected. The thick canopy turned the afternoon into an eerie twilight, and every step felt heavier. My son walked ahead, his thin frame carrying our only bag, his eyes fixed on the barely visible trail. I tried to keep up, but my legs felt like they belonged to someone else—someone weaker, someone who should have stayed behind.

The border crossing had changed since the last time I was here. New fences, new guards, but the same waiting, the same dust in the air. The bus was packed with others making the journey—some for business, some for family, some for reasons they kept to themselves. I sat near the window, watching the road signs in Hebrew and Arabic blur past as we neared the bridge.

The bus ride home is always the worst part of my day. The heat presses in from all sides, the smell of sweat and exhaust mixing into something I’ve long since stopped noticing. I keep my bag clutched to my chest, not because I’m afraid of thieves—though there are plenty—but because I need something to hold onto. Something solid.

I have been working at the port of Haikou on Hainan Island for several years. The Chinese Hawaii. Every day, I see passengers disembark, their faces filled with excitement or exhaustion. My job is to ensure smooth operations—guiding ships, inspecting seating areas, and clearing what people leave behind.

The smell of lavender oil lingers in the air. One of the nurses must have put some on my pillow. They think it helps us relax. Maybe it does. I don’t mind it. There are worse things to inhale in your final days. I had a dream about my daughter last night. She was sitting by my bed, holding my hand, just as I once held hers. Her face was young, her hair still thick, her voice full of life.

That trip to Zimbabwe left a mark on me, though not in the way I had expected. Growing up in Amsterdam, my life was one of comfort, security, and opportunity. My adoptive parents made sure I lacked nothing. Good education, family vacations, and a home filled with books and art—everything was in place for me to thrive. Zimbabwe was just a word on my passport, a place I had no memory of. But as I got older, a quiet restlessness grew in me.

Dubai, United Arab Emirates, was once a place where the scent of the sea lingered in the streets, where we ran barefoot on the sand without worrying about the weight of glass and steel pressing down on us. I remember my father taking me to the souks, the merchants calling out prices, the gold glinting under warm, flickering lights. Back then, the city was small, intimate. Now, I look around and barely recognize it.

The first time I saw the Atlantic stretch endlessly before me, I knew I had to cross it. Not for fame, not to prove anything—just to know what I was capable of. I grew up in Biarritz, France, always overshadowed by my siblings' academic success. School felt like a prison. Words blurred, numbers mocked me. But in sports, I found my place.

I took the bus home from work today, standing near the door as usual. The city felt gray, the air thick with rain. I watched people around me—some glued to their phones, others staring blankly ahead. I wondered if they felt the same quiet pressure I did. I’m 29 and live in Reykjavik, a city I love but one that has become absurdly expensive. I work at a daycare and earn a good salary, but by the time rent, food, and bills are paid, there’s little left.