I went there for nothing really.
A slow Sunday,
some food,
and the kind of conversations that leave no trace.

She came to me with a tray of bubbles
barefoot,
wind-knotted hair,
the kind of smile
you carry
when the world keeps walking past you.

"Buy one, Akka?"
She couldn’t have been more than twelve.
At that age,
I was chasing bubbles through sunlight,
not chasing strangers for survival.

"Eighty," she said.
I nodded.
I had a hundred in hand.

Usually, I fight for change
even ₹2
from a weary bus conductor.
But that day,
my fingers wouldn’t move
toward the ask.

Not just because I cared,
but because it hurt —
to see how unfair God can be
with childhood

I gave her the note,
and walked away,
snackless,
wordless,
heavy.

Behind me,
she ran to the next table.
Still selling joy
she never got to feel.

And I,
I carried the ache
home in my pocket,
a bubble unpopped
still whole,
still hurting.