I was seventeen when I pushed open the heavy glass door, clutching the few things I had left that anyone might want. I’d rehearsed the scene in my head: I’d walk out with cash, lighter by a few memories and a little more numb. The man behind the counter glanced at what I laid down, then at my face, and something in his expression softened. Instead of haggling, he slid my belongings back toward me, reached under the counter, and handed me a sandwich and a folded scrap of paper.

Outside, sitting on the curb, I opened it. Two simple words: “You matter.” It wasn’t money. It didn’t fix rent or fear or the ache in my chest. But it cracked something open. If one stranger could see worth in me, maybe I could start looking for it too. That day didn’t save my life in a dramatic way. It simply redirected it, one quiet act of kindness at a time.