New York, known as the city that never sleeps; I call it the city that never wakes.
The story started off as a typical day; the alarm clock woke me at 6:30am, I got dressed, ate bland cereal for breakfast, brushed my teeth for at least sixty seconds, before catching the train at 7:50am. I got on the train and found a seat by the window. I looked around at the strangers staring down into their little technological devices, not wanting to be disturbed, so I stared out the window to watch the world go round. I realised that all I could hear was the train scraping against the tracks underneath me, and I wondered why they don't play music in here. Then I figured, that's why people bring headphones: So they can listen to their own music. I sighed as I looked up at the clouds, so dull that they're almost dark, and tried to make shapes out of them.
The train came to a halt, and the passengers filed out. I ignored the faceless figures as I walked the streets. Everybody was in their own loop, whether they were walking or running, they all ended up in the same place that they started.
I get to work, and I go straight into writing a report for the latest homicide case. But my mind wasn't focused on writing so much as wondering why a tragedy like this is seemingly so common, and why it has become banal. I mean, murder: in a peaceful world this sort of news would be an outrage. Yet at dinnertime, when you turn the television on and there is a report on a killing, you are more focused on something so comparatively trivial, like deciding whether or not your chips need more salt, and whether or not you can be bothered to get up and get the salt.
After what felt like eight hours, I was free to leave for lunch hour. Firstly, I headed down to the park (which was more like a garden) and sat down on the familiar ancient bench where I ate my turkey and lettuce sandwich, which tasted good, just that the lettuce was droopy. I ate slowly – partly because I wasn't that hungry and partly because I naturally ate slowly and partly because I was in no rush. I sat for a while after finishing my sandwich, admiring the tall golden trees along the edges of the concrete tracks, woven together like roads. The tree's leaves gently detached from them before slowly floating down, falling eventually on one path or another.
Then I went over to Serendipity Café, my favourite café. I've been visiting ever since I starting working at the New York Daily. I walked past the terrace, entered the shop and took a seat by the big glass window. I didn't order anything yet – I wasn't hungry or thirsty or whatever you call it when one wants a coffee. The Last Time I Felt Like This was on the radio. It was a song I never really liked but didn't dislike; that I knew existed because my parents used to play it. Nevertheless, I was glad that there was any music at all, which was why I liked the place.
I peered around the room, not seeing anyone I knew, so I looked out through the clear window. I pondered the fast-moving, unfurling clouds, the statues, then glimpsed at the office building behind it, lowered my gaze to the passing traffic for a few moments, then looked left to the tables outside the café, most of which were occupied. There was one man, seated not too far away, in very old fashioned clothes, whom appeared to be writing or sketching. It was apparent that he was young, because he had blond hair, so I was baffled as to why he was dressed like that. From my side view of him, I was able to notice that he wore black shoes, black trousers and a brown leather jacket.
Before I could form my next thought, he looked up, off into the distance, most likely at the building because he seemed to be studying it. The voices on the radio were singing, 'Cause the last time I felt like this, I was falling in love… I certainly was. That is, if your definition of "love" is to like someone greatly. I liked him because whatever he was doing – drawing, probably – was different from everybody else. He wasn't absorbed in a phone, texting someone who didn't care or playing futile games or watching stupid videos or taking countless self-shots. He actually noticed the world around him, and appreciated it.
The window's edges served as a frame for the portrait of the external world. It was a vision of paradise. The world around me seemed to fade away, leaving nothing but him. I was staring out through the glass at a young man whom, a few moments ago, I did not know existed, but whom I could not take my eyes away from, and felt heady. I found myself alone in the café with the loveliness of the soft piano melody ringing in my head. If my heart could sing, it would be singing this. The moment was like a dream; no end and no beginning.
"The usual today, Scientia?" a voice abruptly interrupted me. I experienced a sudden jolting sensation, like when you're half asleep and you feel as if you're falling, and then you're awake.
"What?" I asked. My brain did not immediately register what the waitress had just said. "Oh! Yes, yes please…"
"Sure you want another?" she joked, which just confirmed she thought I was high.
"Uh… I haven't even had one yet," I said and laughed awkwardly. She grinned for a moment, the way your parents might at you when they suspect something's up. Then she departed.
The waitress's name was Kelly. A young, pretty woman with long curly blond hair with an almost high-pitched voice. I knew her, although not intimately, but we'd say hi to one another or ask how life was going or comment on the weather or rarely, say something about our personal lives.
I looked down at my hands on the table for a moment, and briefly noticed that my new favourite song was over, which gave me room to concentrate. I looked back at him and sighed. I knew I had to meet him.
If there was one lesson I had learned in this life, it would be to take that chance; do not wait. Many of my years were wasted by waiting – in my case, waiting for that guy I liked to ask me out. But here's the thing: it never happened. I waited and waited and waited until it was too damn late. For one reason or another, I'd lost that opportunity. And my excuse for all of this waiting was that I thought there would always be another day, another chance. I didn't think myself brave enough to go up and talk to him, and I thought time would make me stronger. But it wasn't time that made me stronger, it was the realization that there was no god watching over me, granting my wishes and answering my prayers. The world was not designed for me, nor for anyone or anything. So I learnt that if you have a dream, you must first wake up. If you wanted something in this world, you go out and you get it.
It's hard to tell whether I was more scared or more excited. I was about to knock on the door of the unknown. But what I did know is that it was now or never. I had never seen this man in my life, nor anyone on the street, and there's a good chance I'll never come across their lives again. My face would surely be lost in oblivion.
So I made I plan: I will drink my coffee, exit the shop, then walk up to this man and say something to him. What will I say? I thought, and panicked. But I reminded myself to not overthink, to just trust my instinct. I monitored him frequently until Kelly returned with my coffee about a minute later.
"Thanks Kelly," I said, and promptly got my money out and handed it to her. I picked up the mug with both hands and took large gulps of hot coffee, which was scalding my throat as it went down, continually, until it was gone. Kelly was still standing there. She looked astonished by my actions. Before she had the chance to say a word, I stood, said "Have a nice day," and exited through the front door.
A different air came over me like a stormy sky. I looked up, so now I was walking to him from behind. With each small step, my heart rate heightened. I was determined albeit fearful. I knew that if I didn't take this chance, I would live the rest of my life in regret, never having the faintest idea of what could have been. I momentarily shut my eyes and took a lungful of air. No, I will not make the same mistake again. As I pressed my way past the strangers sitting at the tables, I felt like my life was unfolding before my eyes, or was about to.
Before I knew it, I was standing by the young man's side. He was indeed drawing - sketching the buildings, which were very well drawn, even if drawn in black pen.
"Wow," I said quietly, absent-mindedly, but enough for him to hear.
He stopped what he was doing and looked up at me. He was a beautiful being. He had sea blue eyes. His blond hair was parted on his right, and waved over to the left. He gave me a feeling of awe greater than the sight of a clear night sky, in the midst of summer, spangled with twinkling stars, that makes you feel one with the universe. He was the pinnacle of perfection.
"Ma'am?" he said to me.
"It's a lovely drawing," I replied, my words spilling out before I even acknowledged what I was saying.
"Thanks," he said after a moment.
Conversations are like buildings; if it's built on a strong foundation it is strong, it will progress, if it's weak, it will collapse. I felt like the conversation had blown over. He watched me, and I was beaming at him, feeling like an infatuated schoolgirl all over again. I didn't know what to say. My mind raced through the possibilities so quickly that I wasn't actually thinking at all. Like when you are in a hurry and you're trying to fill a bottle up, but the water is rushing out of the tap so fast that it ends up going everywhere except for in the bottle. He looked down, and I was suddenly distressed at the thought that he wasn't interested or that my instinct would compel me to turn and walk away and never look back. But somehow, my instinct lead me to ask him:
"Do you mind if I sit with you?" My heart almost leaped out of my throat. I was incredulous by my courage – or conscience.
"Not at all," he answered. Who'd have known? The nameless door was beginning to open. I sat down opposite him at the circular silver table. There he was, the most handsome man I'd ever seen, sitting face to face with me.
"Do you know what sonder is?" I asked him.
"No, I don't think I do, ma'am."
I took a deep breath and began to speak, slowly and clearly. "Sonder is the realization that each random passerby is living a life as vibrant and complicated as your own. They have their own dreams, friends, habits, troubles and innate insanity. An epic story that continues invisibly around you like an anthill sprawling deep underground, with elaborate passageways to thousands of other lives that you'll never know existed, in which you may appear only once ever, as an extra sipping coffee in the background, as a blur of passing traffic on the highway, as a lighted window at dusk."
It was silent but for the passing traffic, which sounded distant. He just stared at me, probably thinking I was mad.
"Wow," he said, echoing my first word. Finally I said something right, I think. "Do you feel sonder?"
"I'm feeling it right now," I said, in a way that sounded almost flirtatious. When I realised this, I quickly added, "I mean, I – I feel it all the time, I'm – I'm… well, a thoughtful person," and upon recognizing the egotistical tone, said plainly, "I think - a lot." My brain was scattered all about in all directions, and I was embarrassed by my stuttering. "I just thought of sonder because the designer of those buildings actually coined the term," I said, hoping it would suffice to explain my quasi-random choice of a conversation starter.
"You seem quite knowledgeable," he said, to which I giggled.
"Maybe," I said, flattered.
The little light of the day dimmed. There was a quick flash of lightning, followed by a grumble of thunder. It started raining ever so lightly, like snowflakes that melted as soon as they touched your face. The wind was gathering. He looked at me, spun his drawing around and shifted it toward me across the table. I assumed he was offering it to me and I asked, really? Like when someone calls you beautiful - but you don't think you are. He just smiled ever so softly, so I took that as a yes.
It rained progressively faster and the anthropomorphic figures started scrambling off the streets. The young man took the drawing and rolled it up, but it needed something to keep it rolled up, so I got my hair tie from around my wrist and held it up as if to say here! And he took it and wrapped it around the drawing and handed it to me. I smiled, superficially and genuinely. The rain was now coming down hard and cold. I didn't stand up until he did. He was taller than me.
"Well, guess I should get going," he announced. No, this couldn't be the end.
"Wait," I plead, trying to postpone his departure. "Thank you," I smiled nervously, "for this, I mean," I indicated to his drawing.
The rain intensified. By now the last remaining strangers were loading into the café for shelter. He turned around for a second, then looked back at me. It was like something out of a movie, his grandeur made me almost tearful. He was so colorful, so vivid. He smiled at me softly, but there was something in his eyes that didn't match his smile. But I smiled on back, wondering if he knew I was frozen from the inside out. I wondered if he was too.
Then he turned and walked away slowly. I watched him for a few moments that ended too soon. But I heard the loud cracking thunder and turned and entered the café once again. It was crowded now, more than usual - and more overcast than usual. My window seat was occupied so I settled for one of the vacant ones in the center. I opened the drawing on the table and the tall buildings appeared emerged again. I drew in a deep breath and tried to take it all in.
There was an old couple. They were joking about something, but I was too far away to hear them. I imagined how they first met, wondered if it was here, in the same café, doing the same thing, just younger. I thought - that could be me… that could be us. I got up. I glimpsed out the same window, seeing the now empty tables, the rain immersing them. The sight of it did not detract me, but rather innovated me, so I pushed the glass doors open and rushed the hell back out into the rain.
It was like standing under a waterfall. I ran down the street, around the corner onto the street I presume he went. I examined the street up and down and all around, but he was nowhere to be seen.
It felt vaguely like a common dream I used to have; searching endlessly for that lover. It was usually a lucid dream, and for the most part, I would never find him. I knew that I wouldn't find him, but I searched on and on. So now I really was looking for that lover, and I feared I'd lost him before I'd even found him. It was more like a nightmare.
He appeared in a flash, going down the subway. I strode over there, taking off my cardigan and putting sunglasses on to alter my appearance. It was not as cold underground, as there was no chilly breeze. I searched around for him, like a needle in a haystack. Still, I pressed on through the crowd. In a flicker, I thought I saw his face. I hurriedly struggled through. When I got out of the hectic zone, I came to a train standing stationary. People were filing in and out like luggage in an airport.
He was a fair distance away when he boarded the train, which was due to be departing. What the hell was I doing? I should be back at work, my lunch hour's almost over. But I didn't want to spend my life writing reports on sad news for the sad world. I was too busy stalking a random passerby whose name I didn't know, who is currently on a train I am about to board, unknowing as to where it's going to take us.
Without further ado, I ran. "Oh, what the hell," I muttered to myself as I ran. I decided I'd board the same carriage as him, I couldn't risk losing him in the scurry of the ever-changing world. I searched through the windows of the carriages, seeing strange faces as I went. Suddenly, there he was. I came to a stop and tried to control my breathing. I entered the train because I knew it was leaving soon. I kept my back to him while I stood. The train took off soon after I boarded. I watched his reflection in the window; his lonely, lonely reflection.