I was having a terrible week. University was everything I never thought it would be, and nothing I didn't care about was going right. The last year and a half held an air of finality that was starting to go stale. Like an epilogue that was going bad. It was still enough to still me.

Still, that Saturday, I dragged myself to the station, and sat across my own flattened reflection in an empty train. One by one, the little green lights on the system map extinguished themselves, as the train ran across the island and I inched closer to the airport. I was dreading going to the airport.

A group of us were joining an organisation that worked with the homeless on one of their routine walks, and Saturday was the only day we were all free. And that day, the walk was scheduled to be at the airport.

I had never thought of the airport as a home for the homeless, but it made sense: free water, clean toilets, air-conditioning, and no one would look twice at someone dozing off clutching a suitcase holding their entire net worth. There was something ironic about making the sterile non-place where everyone seems to be heading home, your home.

For me, the airport was always the first gate on the way home no matter which direction I came from. It made me sick to go so close and not go through it.

At last, we met the other volunteers, and started on our rounds, navigating through the terminals, accounting for people and making sure they were okay. Most of the rough sleepers blurred into the surroundings. I wondered how many times I must have walked past some of them, thinking they were just tired travelers. We celebrated Uncle Deng's birthday, joked with Mr Faisal about the time he used to sit cats, winded through the carparks to meet workers sleeping at impossible staircases, and gaped at the man who chose to stay homeless so he could save more money to travel.

The last person we had to check up on was an old woman known to roam around the basement of terminal 1. We found her sitting alone at a table in the food court. We waved at her, she smiled with a recklessly hidden joy.

I took a seat beside her, and across a senior volunteer. She was so small, her feet didn't touch the ground. The volunteer shared that he had finally found a job. She congratulated him softly, toying with her food, cracking open shells and popping the pulp into her mouth in between phrases. As the two of them spoke, I could only see her in profile. Her tired cheeks drooped over the edge of her face, wrinkles exaggerating every expression. She spoke so quietly. I sat right next to her and I strained to hear anything. He asked her how she had been doing.

She glanced around, and rambled about some men that had been harassing her the last couple days. She was scared they would take her away. The last time, she said, she had been put in a room with five other women. And there was a girl with a razor blade. I could barely hear her, but she was trembling as she spoke.

At midnight, we decided it was getting late. We needed to get back home. My groupmates slowly made their way towards the taxi stand, as I stayed for a moment to tie my shoelaces. I smiled at her sheepishly as I got up from my seat. She asked me what I was studying.

I told her I was studying computer science. She said she didn't know what it was, but she told me to study hard. She looked at me for a long a time. Her eyes were small. Her mouth was smaller. She said I looked very young. I told her I was just 20. She told me I was younger.

Her dark, beady eyes reflected the flickering lights above. Most of the stalls were closed. She was the last one left sitting at a table.

As I picked up my backpack, her face darkened. She leaned forward, spoke even more softly, she said to me - she said,

I don't like what they were saying, the men. They said the world would - what do you call it, I don't remember it - they said the world will end. No. How can they tell me that?

The end is not coming.

She looked me in the eye with a frustrated sincerity, she said,

the world is forever.