December 6, 2023
For as long as I’ve known the Instagram Stories feature, I’ve shared every fragment of my life there. Every fleeting thought, every tiny moment that stirred emotion somehow found its way online. If something happened that felt significant, I would tweet about it too. I used to process life by turning it into words. Sharing was how I breathed.
But lately, it’s been different. I’ve been keeping things to myself. Living slower. Choosing silence over explanation. I have been more private, even secretive at times, and surprisingly, I feel no emptiness in that quiet. It feels like peace in a way that noise never did. Yet even in silence, my life has been far from calm.
For weeks, I had been feeling like my heart was quietly breaking a little every day. Not from a single event, but from something invisible, something unnameable that lingered beneath everything I did. I couldn’t point to where the pain came from, but I could feel it spreading through the small spaces of my day. When your heart is already heavy, even the smallest things start to feel tremendous.
That evening, I decided to take myself out. After finishing at the gym, I thought I deserved a little peace, a quiet dinner, something nice. I had been craving sushi for days, so I thought I’d treat myself. I went home, showered, put on a simple but put-together outfit, added a touch of makeup, and wore my favorite heels. The kind that make you feel good about yourself even when life doesn’t.
While I was finishing up, my ADHD brain couldn’t stop thinking about a bag I’d seen earlier that day at Miniso. It was perfect for my outfit, and the thought of it wouldn’t leave me alone. I also wanted to bring Chandler Bing’s memoir, which I had just started reading. The book was big, so I needed a larger bag to fit it in. That settled it. I would stop by Miniso first, pick up the bag, and then head to dinner.
It wasn’t far, just a few blocks away, and I decided to walk. The heels I wore weren’t meant for that kind of walk though. They were ALDO lucite clear heels, fragile but beautiful, the kind that look like they belong on red carpets, not Malé pavements. I hesitated before stepping out because I knew how uneven the roads were, but they looked too good to take off. So I decided I would walk slowly, carefully, and with purpose.
The traffic was heavier than usual that evening. It was around 8:20 pm, on Ameenee Magu, at the zebra cross in front of Rehendhi Flats — a route I took almost every day. I’m always cautious when crossing, and I always make sure to use the zebra cross. Usually, the cars stop. Usually, it’s fine. But that night, it wasn’t.
I checked both sides as usual, waited for a small break in the traffic, and started walking. I was almost at the other end of the cross when I felt it — a sudden jolt, like the air being punched out of my body. I didn’t even see it coming. A bike hit me, and the impact threw me forward a few steps. My heel slipped, my arm burned, and my heart began to pound in a way I’ll never forget. I had a small fall and felt like the ground had disappeared under me.
For a moment, I stayed there frozen, disoriented, trying to make sense of what had just happened. Then came the pain. Then the tears. They streamed down uncontrollably. My body shook. I was humiliated, terrified, and aching all at once.
And no one came.
Not a single person stopped. Not a single person even asked if I was okay. The road was full of people, cars, and bikes, but I stood there alone in the middle of it, invisible.
I remember thinking how ironic it was. These were the same people who post about kindness and empathy online. The same ones who speak so passionately about justice and humanity. But when someone just a few feet away needed help, everyone chose to look the other way. That realization hurt almost as much as the accident. It was dehumanizing.
I picked up my heel from the middle of the road and limped to the pavement, trying to steady my breathing. I caught a glimpse of the man who had hit me — he had a girl sitting behind him on the bike. They looked shocked too. They paused for a few seconds, maybe unsure of what to do. But before I could even gather myself enough to say something, they were gone.
Just like that. Gone.
No one cared. No one said a word. The world continued moving, as if nothing had happened. And so, like everyone else, I pretended too. I put on a brave face, wiped my tears, and started walking again. A few blocks down, I called the police. The phone rang endlessly before someone picked up. I told him I wanted to report an incident. He listened, then told me I’d need to go to the nearest station and file it in person if I wanted it to be looked into.
How convenient.
I hung up. And somehow, I still went to Miniso. I don’t know what part of me thought that was the right thing to do, but maybe I just needed to hold on to some part of the plan, something ordinary. My hands were still trembling when I picked up the bag. The cashier looked at me like she wanted to ask what was wrong but didn’t. I couldn’t even find words for what was wrong.
By then, I felt unbearably alone. I didn’t know who to call. I called a friend first, but she didn’t answer. Out of desperation, I called my ex. I knew he would come. And he did. I appreciated it, but the moment I saw him, a strange sadness washed over me. I don’t know why. Maybe it was because this was not who I wanted to need, but he was all I had.
At the police station, they took my statement and asked me to wait. I sat there for fifteen minutes, still crying quietly, my arm throbbing from the impact. When an officer finally came back after watching the CCTV footage, he said something that I will never forget. He said, “You didn’t really look properly before crossing, did you?”
It took me a few seconds to process what I’d heard. I had crossed from the zebra cross. I had checked both sides. I had done everything right. Yet somehow, the story they chose to see was that I was careless.
I remember feeling my chest tighten. My tears came back, not from pain this time, but from how quickly someone could dismiss what I had just gone through. I felt so small sitting there, like my experience didn’t matter at all.
A few moments later, a female officer came out to speak with me. She was kind — the only person that night who seemed to care. But even her words hurt. She told me there wasn’t much they could do. It wasn’t a “serious enough” accident. The most they could do was find the driver and give him advice.
Advice. That was all my pain amounted to.
In that moment, something inside me shifted. Everything I had been feeling for weeks finally made sense. The world is unfair. It moves fast. It doesn’t stop for anyone. Being human means being vulnerable, and being vulnerable often means being unseen.
That night, I went home feeling smaller than I ever had. I kept replaying the moment in my head — the sound of the bike, the shock, the silence that followed, the faces that turned away. I realized how fragile safety is, and how quickly it can be taken from you.
________
A few weeks later, someone from the police called again. They said they had reviewed the footage properly this time and confirmed that the rider was in the wrong. It gave me a small sense of validation, a soft confirmation that I wasn’t imagining my pain.
But by then, I had already learned the real lesson.
The world doesn’t stop when you get hurt. It keeps moving. People keep walking. Cars keep going. You are the only one who stands still. And sometimes, all you can do is pick yourself up, put your heel back on, and keep walking home — even if your legs are still shaking.
Because that’s what it means to be human. To be fragile, to be forgotten, and still keep going anyway.
