I helped a boy six years ago, and I still wonder if he’s okay.

Six years ago, I was working at a gas station just outside the city. It wasn’t glamorous, long hours, late shifts, minimum pay, but I met all kinds of people. Most came and went. But there’s one face I still remember.

He was maybe 14 or 15. Thin, quiet, nervous. Came in late one night, alone, wearing a hoodie that looked too big for him. He wandered the aisles for a while, didn’t pick anything up. I kept an eye on him, just in case, but something about him didn’t feel threatening, just lost.

Eventually, he came to the counter with a bottle of water and a granola bar. Total was barely two bucks. He pulled out some coins and a crumpled dollar bill, hands shaking a little. He was short by 45 cents.

I told him not to worry about it. Just rang it up and said, “You’re good.” He looked up at me like I’d just handed him a lifeline. Said “Thank you” so quietly I almost didn’t hear it.

I don’t know why, but before he left, I asked if he was okay. He hesitated, looked down, then just said, “I’m not going home tonight.” And then he walked out.

I watched him leave through the glass. It was cold that night. I almost ran after him. Almost. But I didn’t. I told myself it wasn’t my place, that maybe he’d figure it out. That someone else would step in.

I’ve thought about him so many times over the years. That one moment. That one sentence. I wonder where he slept that night. If he ever went back home. If he got out of whatever situation he was in. If he’s alive.

It was such a small interaction, not even five minutes, but it’s stayed with me like a bruise under the skin. I wish I’d done more. I wish I’d asked for his name. I wish I’d said something that might’ve actually helped.

He probably doesn’t remember me. But I remember him. And I still hope, wherever he is, that someone else showed up when I didn’t.