While waiting for my food at the restaurant, I found myself watching a man at a nearby table.
He had just finished his meal and was scanning the area for a tissue, but there were none to be found.
In this place, they didn’t just give them away—if you wanted a packet, you had to pay for it.
Reluctantly, he reached for his wallet and paid.
The waitress handed him a small packet, which he paused to admire; it was surprisingly elegant, filled with high-quality tissue.
He offered a small smile, carefully peeled back the plastic, and pulled one out with gentle precision.
But the moment was fleeting.
Once he was finished, he tossed the crumpled tissue onto the table and walked away without a second glance.
The once-pristine white tissue sat abandoned on the table, crumpled and heavy with stains.
As the waitress cleared the plates, the tissue slipped unnoticed to the floor.
She didn’t look back; after all, nobody spares a glance for a used tissue
Feet trampled the tissue, worsening its state as it was kicked aimlessly across the floor.
Finally, a sweeper noticed and brushed it into the dustbin.
Strangely, it didn’t feel like being discarded.
I felt a wave of relief for it; tucked away in the bin, it was finally safe from the world’s heavy steps.
There, in the quiet dark, the tissue could finally rest and heal.
Millypede 
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