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.

The monastery is crumbling. A deep crack runs along the eastern wall of the prayer hall, and the wind whistles through gaps in the wooden frames of the windows. I have lived here in exile in Mustang, Nepal, for many years now, long enough to forget exactly how many, but at seventy-eight, I count less in years and more in the rhythm of my breath. I was born in Tibet, a land I have not seen in decades, though it remains alive in my heart.

As I stood there, my hands resting lightly on the glass counter, I could feel my pulse in my fingertips. The man’s voice cut through the store like a blade—sharp, absolute. His wife’s eyes darted between the necklace she wanted and the one he insisted on, her lips pressed into a thin, helpless line. I wanted to speak. Not as a saleswoman, but as a woman. To tell her that her desires mattered, that she wasn’t unreasonable for wanting something of her own.

I always thought I was a good father. I worked hard, provided for my sons, and made sure they grew up disciplined, like my own father raised me. But now, at 54, with my body failing me, I see the cracks in what I believed was strength. Alex was different from the start. He was quieter than his brother, moved with a grace I didn’t understand. He was thinner, his voice softer. I told myself it was just a phase, but deep down, I knew. And I hated that I knew.

I sit in the back row, where I can blend in but still see everything. The professor's voice fills the lecture hall, explaining the intricacies of the cardiovascular system, but my mind drifts. Not out of boredom—I love medicine—but because I keep wondering if I truly belong here. Most of my classmates don’t have to think about that. They grew up in families where doctors were just another part of life, where success was an expectation, not something they had to wrestle for.

At night, when the house is quiet, I sit by my desk with a sketchbook and a pencil. The city outside is never really dark—neon signs flicker, and the hum of Taipei, Taiwan, never stops. But in my room, with the door shut, it's my world. I draw everything—faces, animals, strange creatures that don’t exist anywhere but in my head. If I could, I would draw all day. But my father has other plans.

When the first rays of sunlight break through the dense canopy, the forest hums with life. This is my favorite time, just before the world wakes. I sling my binoculars around my neck and step outside, greeted by the humid, earthy scent of the Daintree Rainforest, Australia. The laughter of kookaburras echoes through the trees, their calls bouncing like playful taunts. “Good morning to you too,” I mutter, smiling.