Her name was Layla. She was working as a prostitute most nights until she saved enough money to go back to school and get a degree. Her parents abandoned her, and she was left alone to care for her younger brother. Her only option was to earn money in whatever way she could.

It would only be for a little while until she had enough to walk away from it all, but that wouldn't be the case. That night, she had gone to the man who was in charge of the women working the streets. She told him she was leaving, and he didn't take the news well, beating her to an inch of her life in an alleyway.

I remember that night clearly. People walked past as she screamed for help, but not a single person stopped to help her or even batted an eyelid. She wanted to be saved; she wanted to keep living.

Layla made a full recovery after three weeks in the hospital. When she got out, she came to see me at the station. Permanent scars were left over her face and body, but still, she smiled with flowers in her hand and thanked me for saving her life.

While I might not have a reason to live, other people do. They have dreams and aspirations and loved ones to return home to. If I can help someone else in life, maybe it will be okay for me to keep living, too.

And so that's what I did.