I adjusted my hood, trying to hide my hair — now thin and bleached after another round of chemo. The subway was crowded, and I managed to grab a seat by the door. I felt drained, my body ached, every breath was difficult.

Next to me stood a woman in her sixties with a small boy, about six years old. He immediately took the empty seat, and the woman, sighing heavily, turned to me:

— Young lady, could you please give up your seat? It’s hard for me to stand.

I raised my head slightly — I was running on empty.

— I’m sorry, I can’t, — I said quietly, lowering my gaze, — maybe your grandson could give you his seat.

She frowned and raised her voice:

— What do you mean, you can’t? You’re young! Where’s your respect? My boy is a child, and you — this is outrageous! Look how she’s behaving!

People around us started to pay attention, some began to grumble too.

Then I decided to do something that made the woman stare at me in horror, apologize, and get off — even before her own stop.

I slowly pulled back my hood, revealing my bald head, and said with bitterness in my voice:

— I have cancer. I just finished chemotherapy. That’s why I can’t stand. I’m not asking for your understanding, just please don’t yell at me.

The woman froze. Silence hung for a minute.

Some people looked at me differently now — not with judgment, but with pity and perhaps respect.

I put my hood back on, trying to hide myself from the stares.

On the subway — among ordinary, indifferent faces — I felt both very alone and incredibly strong.

Did I do the right thing? I was truly in pain, but I respect my elders.