Looking Away

You get good at not seeing people. Earbuds in, eyes down, moving through the city with a practiced invisibility that works both ways—you don’t see them, they don’t see you. It’s the default mode. Cleaner that way. No demands, no complications.

But every so often something breaks through. I watched something about a kid in winter without a coat, testing who would notice and who would help. The results were depressing in that way that confirms what you already knew—some people do, most don’t, and it’s not usually about being a bad person. It’s about the habit of not getting involved.

I do it constantly. Someone struggling with a door, someone clearly lost, and my first instinct is to make sure I don’t register it. Not cruel, just… easier. The city teaches you to keep a force field up. Engage with a stranger and you’re inviting something unpredictable into your day, and most days you’re just trying to get through.

The weird thing is when you don’t look away. When you help someone with something small, and they actually seem grateful, and there’s this strange moment of actual connection. It’s uncomfortable in a way that makes you realize how much of the time you’re just moving through a crowd of people you’ve successfully made invisible to yourself.

I don’t know what that test with Johannes really proved. That some of us are kind? That’s not a surprise. That most of us aren’t willing to inconvenience ourselves for a stranger? Also not shocking. Maybe the only thing it proves is how well we’ve learned to look away, and how hard it would be to stop.