On a cold Friday afternoon last March, when I still lived on Rowan’s campus, I was taking my daily jog around the Whitney-Bunce-Hollybush loop quickly to beat the impending rain. It seemed like I succeeded as I took my cooldown lap when a tall, thin man with a bald head and stiff, alert shoulders caught my gaze. He looked around his fifties, definitely not a student, with tired eyes and a tan trench coat.

As soon as his eyes met mine I knew he was going to approach me, right by the crosswalk leading to the student center. I readied myself to reluctantly lie, that I didn’t have any cash on me in order to avoid confrontation. Instead, he asked me if I could help him find his bus stop to get back to Philadelphia. Unprompted, he explained he needed to get back home after getting out of the hospital. Then he pressed a folded paper into my hands and stood still as I opened it. He breathed in and out steadily, awaiting my response.

The paper was a discharge notice from the Inspira Hospital just up the street on 322, dated the same day. At the top it listed suicidal tendencies as the reason for his visit, and that he’d been in the emergency psychiatric ward.

That’s when I knew that this was something different. Here was a man willing to display his vulnerability front and center, to a complete stranger. To me, of all people, and in a world where mental health problems are so strongly stigmatized. Did he know he hand-picked someone who understood even a semblance of the emotions and pain he was likely going through?

That moment’s glance was all I needed to see, I folded the paper and handed it back to him. The first words I actually spoke to him were asking if his bus stop was the one on the same street, the roofed one, with a sign demanding “post no bills,” that’s often defaced with pictures of Bill Murray and Bill Clinton. He said no, it wasn’t, and that he knew his bus would be coming around six, around two hours from then. I didn’t know of any other bus stops near campus, so I took out my phone and told him I’d try to help find where his stop was. He thanked me as I started to google.

I quickly pulled up the NJ Transit website. The interface was unhelpful. I searched for buses going from Glassboro to Philadelphia. There were several that would be arriving at about six, but none that listed where their stop was. I found myself apologizing for my uselessness, and he said it was okay. He wore his emotions on his face, a rugged mask signaling that keeping it together was an active and ongoing effort. A few students passed by in the minutes I was scrolling on my phone. Some looked at the two of us, some didn’t.

The first raindrop fell on my phone screen. I wiped it away, only for several more to fall and take its place. I looked up at the man, his shoulders stayed straight like he already accepted he would be getting soaked. The wind would give no relief either, it was only blowing faster and colder now.

In that moment, I found myself seriously frustrated. Maybe that frustration was directed at the world, for daring to open up the skies and pour down on someone already going through an intensely difficult experience. Maybe it was directed at myself, for running around in circles trying to help only to be stopped by my admittedly poor ability to give and receive directions, or that I was fortunate enough to have never needed to rely on public transportation.

I gave up, perhaps prematurely. I pulled out my wallet and gave him twenty dollars for another bus ticket and something to eat, should the worst happen. Only in the very next moment did I realize that could have been insulting, handing him money like he was someone begging in the street, but he thanked me and accepted it. I told him I was going indoors, and he should try and do the same. I don’t remember how he responded after that, and I wish that I could, but I do remember what I said to him before I walked away:

“You’re not alone. You never were.”

I really hope he made it home safe that night.