It is a warm evening, and while waiting for customers, I take a few photos with my phone. I stand still, watching the street breathe slowly in front of me. The photos reflect the life of people here, simple and honest. Faces, movements, shadows, and lights quietly tell stories. I feel like a silent observer, present but unnoticed.
Some riders are going home from their workplaces, their helmets dusty, their shoulders tired. Motorbikes pass like flowing water, steady and familiar. I see relief in their posture, a soft release after long hours of work. A few slow down, checking directions or answering calls, while others disappear quickly into side streets and fading daylight.
Some food stalls are closed because the weather is uncertain. Plastic covers flap in the wind, and empty chairs sit waiting. The weather changes quickly; one minute it is raining, and a few minutes later the road is dry again. The smell of wet dust mixes with cooking oil, creating a strange but familiar scent.
The weather is windy and warm, around twenty-six degrees Celsius. The air touches my skin gently, carrying both comfort and restlessness. I stand here waiting, not just for customers, but for a hope I cannot clearly name. Maybe it is opportunity, maybe connection, or simply a better tomorrow. I keep waiting.
