I walk past the same number two pencil every day.
It lies just off the sidewalk, parallel to the concrete as if it was placed there intentionally. Not snapped in half, not chewed beyond recognition, just a plain, yellow, wooden pencil with a pink eraser, slightly weathered now, but still perfectly usable. It has not rolled away, been crushed or claimed.
I know this because I walk past it every day.
I have seen the pencil in the cold, in the rain, and under a dusting of snow. I have passed it when the ground was frozen solid and again when it thawed. Students hurry by with backpacks slung over one shoulder, earbuds in, eyes forward. No one stops. No one bends down. No one seems to notice.
And I know, logically, that it is just an inanimate object. A pencil does not feel loneliness or rejection. But every time I pass it, I find myself thinking the same thing: why has no one picked it up?
It makes no sense, and yet somehow, it makes complete sense.
The pencil is inconvenient. Picking it up would require stopping, bending down and touching something that has been on the ground. What if it is dirty? Broken? What if someone sees you pick it up and thinks it is strange? It is easier to keep walking. It is easier to assume someone else will deal with it. It’s easier to ignore it entirely. So, the pencil stays.
At first, I found the situation mildly amusing. But as the days passed, the pencil became harder to ignore. The longer it lay there, the more it felt like a quiet commentary on how we move through campus and through life.
College campuses are busy places. We are always on our way to something else: a class, a practice, a shift at work, a deadline. We pride ourselves on productivity and independence. Stopping for something small, especially something that does not benefit us, feels unnecessary. And so, we walk past things. Sometimes those things are pencils. Sometimes they are people.
There are students who sit alone in the dining hall, scrolling on their phones, hoping someone will notice them. There are classmates who show up to every lecture but never speak and never get asked how they are doing. There are people who struggle quietly, academically, emotionally, and spiritually, assuming no one would care if they asked for help.
They are not broken. They are not beyond use. They are simply there, waiting to be noticed.
We live in a culture that celebrates big gestures and visible impacts. We want to change the world, fix systems, and start movements. But we overlook small acts of care because they seem insignificant. Saying hello feels awkward. Sitting next to someone who is alone feels uncomfortable. So, we keep walking.
What unsettles me the most is that no one has even moved the pencil. It exists in a kind of social invisibility, seen but not acknowledged. We assume that if something truly mattered, someone else would take care of it. These assumptions allow us to disengage without guilt. But what if they are wrong?
A pencil is meant to be used. Left on the ground, its usefulness does not disappear, but its potential does.
People are not objects, of course. But connection and belonging are things we all need. Feeling overlooked has a way of quietly eroding a person’s sense of worth.
Community is not built through slogans or mission statements. It is built through moments, often small and unremarkable. Moments like stopping or noticing.
Every day I consider picking up the pencil. I imagine how strange it might look, and then I realize how strange it is that this is what stops me. Why does kindness feel embarrassed sometimes?
Maybe that pencil is an invitation to slow down, to notice and to do the small good that no one else is doing.
I do not know how much longer the pencil will be there. But I do know that I will remember it. And maybe tomorrow, I will be the one who bends down, not because the pencil needs me, but because I need the reminder.
