I took a second to recenter myself. I wondered what my mind did when it wasn’t here and now.

I approached an outdoor book sale; a row of plastic foldable tables side by side with a few layers of books on each table lined both edges of the sidewalk. The occasional pedestrian stopped to peruse the novels new and old.

I picked up a novel on the verge of breaking apart in my fingers; its cover was creased and torn and its spine malleable from being handled so many times.

“Excuse me miss,” An old man hobbled towards me, speaking in a French accent. He must have been in his 80s, hunched over a metal cane, clutching the hand grip tightly. He had draped a large blanket scarf around his neck and tossed it behind his shoulder. His long tan wool coat nearly touched the ground. “Have you heard of that book before?”

I looked down at the title. Finnegans Wake. I shook my head no.

He chuckled. “I don’t think you want to, to be frank, dear.”

“Why?” I asked curiously.

“That book is supposed to be the hardest book to read in the entire world!” He flailed his free hand in the air.

I raised my eyebrows. I flipped through the book quickly and landed on a random page. I couldn’t tell if it was written in Old English or gibberish.

“There’s even a 100-letter word in the book.” The old man stated.

“What word has 100 letters?” I was shocked.

“A made-up one.” He laughed heartily.

“That’s so weird. What is it even about?” I asked.

“How dreams are a reality and reality is a dream. And how everything is cyclical.” He gently motioned towards the book, which I handed to him.

“That’s really interesting. Have you ever read it?” I asked.

He nodded, flipping through the pages slowly. “Once. I had to.”

“Why’d you have to?”

“I kept having this dream. I still have it, actually. It doesn’t happen often, maybe once every few months. But this dream, I know I’m in it as soon as it starts. I know I’ve been here before. I know what’s going to happen but I also don’t.”

He peered from the book at me to make sure I was following along. I nodded.

“I thought I’d find some answers here. This book is based on some old philosophy work anyway. Well, turns out I just got more confused.” He shrugged.

“What is your dream?”

“Well,” he started. “It starts with me running. That’s when I wake up in the dream anyway. I’m running through a field of clovers. It’s so beautiful. It spans the width of the world, it seems. The sky is crystal blue. Clovers fly up with the wind like weightless emeralds, it’s stunning. An old man running like that.. to feel that feeling. I wish you could see it, feel the wind in your hair.”

I smiled and nodded. I wish I could too.

“I look down and notice that everywhere my feet touch the clovers, it turns to ash. I’m devastated. I can’t believe it. I stop running and I bend to touch a clover. I can hear it breathing almost. It’s so alive. But at my touch, it disintegrates. I can smell it too, like burning flesh.”

“I look behind me and the whole field is curdling slowly. Something toxic and black fills the air from the decay. It smells like rotting corpses. My nose is filled with the smell, I can’t get it out. It’s like sludge and I’m being suffocated."

“I fall to my knees, my eyes are watering with all the toxins in the air. I can’t see, I can’t smell. I find myself wishing I was dead instead.”

A short silence filled the moment. My breath turned shallow, my mouth hung open.

“And then?” I pushed. That can’t be it.

“That’s it. That’s how it ends.” He looked at me and yet beyond me, distant in thought.

I shook my head in disbelief.

“Where do you even begin, no? I’ve never been in a traumatic situation that has anything to do with any of this. I grew up near Lyon, France. I had a lot of friends growing up. My parents were good to me. I was an okay student, and of course, I’ve done some stupid things before, but who hasn’t?” He scoffed in defeat, having exhausted all potential scenarios.

“I’m more surprised you call this a dream instead of a nightmare,” I said.

The old man paused and scrunched his eyebrows together. “Yeah, I didn’t think about that.”

“Why do you think that is? This sounds pretty intense for something you relive often in such vivid detail.”

He gripped the copy of Finnegan’s Wake in his hand. “In this book, the characters have one identity and name when they are awake, and change identities and names when they’re dreaming. Everyone except one character, who is called the same thing awake or dreaming. Issy.”

His free hand clutched the book with increasing force until he let out a frustrated grunt and extended the book back to me. I hesitantly took it.

“I don’t know.” He gave up. “Have a good day miss.” I watched as he hobbled away, slumped over his cane.

After he disappeared around the block, I was transported back into reality. People walked back and forth on 5th Ave, chatted amongst themselves, peered at the lines of tables, picked up books, and flipped through them.

I took one last look at Finnegan’s Wake before setting it back on the table.

He was almost onto something, I’m sure of it. Why’d he have to get so frustrated and leave? And why did I care so much about any of this?

I walked into Central Park, slowly, deep in thought. I watched the bench-sitters, the dog-walkers, the fruit-sellers, the horse-drawn-carriage-riders, and the runners. Who were they when they’re not here and now with me? Who were they when they fell asleep?

I thought about the duality of everything. You can understand what is being said but still be confused. You can want to be alone but not want to be lonely. You can have a good upbringing and life and still find yourself wishing you were dead in your dreams.

The question of why came back to me. Why would he ever call this dream and not a nightmare? The smell of rot and visions of apocalypse stuck in my thoughts.

His last descriptor words lingered; I found myself wishing I was dead instead. Why would he say find?

I recalled the way he recited the dream. He was so animate about the rolling fields of clovers, the intensified beauty of the natural world come to life. Even in the more horrific parts, he spoke with a passion instead of a fear.

Maybe, in the most desperate part of the dream, his brain dictated a state of emergency, not his mind. He found himself in that duality; your mind can be present and your brain can be ready to end it all. Even to the end, he respected every part of the moment, the way I presume he lives his conscious life too.

I’m not sure how the book goes, but maybe that one character in the book that stays the same identity throughout the novel represents the old man. Issy going though the cyclical concept of dream and reality being one and the same.

I slowed my stroll into a halt. A couple feet away from me, a baby slept peacefully in its stroller while the mother rested her feet on a bench. Foot traffic was high, a dog barked at another passing by dog, tourists yelled at their kids to stand still for a picture, a man played music on a Jinghu hooked up to a speaker, a vendor repeatedly shouted ‘fresh fruit’ to passerby pedestrians.

And then something clicked. To sleep and to be awake are both being. Perceptions of reality are the only thing that is in question, a subjective question at most.

Maybe the old man shouldn’t question why he keeps having this dream, but rather come to understand that it is just another reality to him. That he chooses to wake up and live a different reality every time, one he controls and directs.

And to the baby sleeping in the chaos of Central Park, to dream is not to escape, but a maybe it’s to reconcile all the realities of oneself, no matter how strange the world around you might feel. It is to live without fear. It is to rest with intent.

We live in a world within worlds and universes beyond our comprehension. To be human is to have all versions of yourself all the time, in sleep and wake. But to also have access to worlds within books, within your own mind, within others too.

And when all of that becomes too much to bear, to be is enough as it is. Your reality is what you make of it.

Thank you to Matt Hawes and Tim Cui for their help editing this piece!

Meditation walks are typically something I enjoyed, getting the chance to hyper-focus my brain on something seemingly frivolous, magnifying it into an entire universe in and of itself. Worlds inside of worlds. Today, it felt like a chore.

My let my brain shut off, only motor functions pursued.

I need this, I tried to convince myself.

A few feet away, a set of ancient mahogany wood doors caught my attention. Faded brick outlined an otherwise unassuming building. A small plaque next to the doors read the name of a church.

Before I knew it, my feet turned toward the large mahogany doors. My mind stayed frozen over, dictating my steps without my conscious self.

I stood in the back of the aisle, overcome with the grandeur of the church's interior. Depictions of men and angels delicately painted the 40-foot ceilings. Softened streams of light danced with dust particles. A silence one decibel more silent than silence saturated the room. It filled my ear like cotton.

God is that you?

I shook my head. I’m not even Christian, much less religious at all. However, it was hard to deny the energy that consumed me, standing there. I waited for it to mean something. It had to mean something.

Suddenly, I felt a strong grip on my shoulder. So engrossed in the moment, I gasped. The sound echoed softly, cutting the air. I sharply turned around to see the frazzled face of a woman. Fearful, almost.

“Oh no,” She breathed, retracting her hand from my shoulder.

I stood in disbelief, confused.

“Marcy?” She let out a weak cry.

I shook my head no, still unable to let out a word in my shock.

“Marcy.” She stated with a little more confidence.

“No, sorry.” I whispered.

She stood staring into my eyes, searching, mouth slightly parted. I couldn’t break eye contact.

“Yes,” She whispered, “yes, of course.” She shook her head out of daze.

“I’m sorry.” I didn’t really know what I was apologizing for.

“No, I’m sorry, I thought you were someone else. I thought… you look like someone I know.” She trailed off.

“Oh, I don’t get that often. That’s interesting.” I still felt on edge. Something was wrong.

The woman was nicely dressed with a long black wool coat, her black hair tied in a low and loose pony tail. I would guess her to be mid-40s.

I paused. The more I looked at her, the more I saw little snippets of myself. The same eye shape, a version of my nose, a similar build. I felt uneasy.

“Yes, you mustn’t.” What an odd choice of word, I thought. “You look just like my daughter and I’ve never seen anyone that looks like her.”

“Oh!” I found myself trying to end the conversation. I still couldn’t place what was wrong.

“My daughter is the best. Her name is Marcy. She’s such a gem. There hasn’t been a single moment of sadness in her time on Earth.” The woman’s eyes softened towards mine.

I nervously broke my eye contact and glanced to the back corner of the church where a pamphlet stand stood. I subconsciously locked into a pamphlet that said “JESUS SAVED ME!”

Why would she say “in her time on Earth?” The woman’s expression became blissful like she was experiencing a high.

I smiled, nodded, and edged past her toward the exit.

“Wait, Marcy!” She turned sharply to call out to me.

“I am not your daughter ma’am.” I said, exasperated.

“No one is.” Tears started to fall from her face.

The woman pushed past me and walked swiftly out of the church. The doors closed behind her, leaving a gust of air behind.

I stood staring at the door utterly confused. The stillness of the church slowly settled back in, but it didn’t feel the same.

Out of my peripheral, I saw an old man get up from his seat and put his coat on. He passed me slowly on his way out, pausing at the mahogany doors.

“You do look like her.” He turned slightly to peer at me.

I nodded, deep in thought. “I know.”

“She comes here once in a while. Wouldn’t call her devout. Maybe she’s just looking for something to make sense.”

I stood studying the man. A few silver hairs stood on his bald head. His pale, almost translucent skin felt the weight of gravity over time. He held a Bible in his hand.

“When she comes here she prays for life.”

“A happy life?”

“No, just life.”

The man shrugged and pushed the doors open to leave.

I turned back around to face the front of the church. What are the odds I walked in here on the day the woman also walked in here? What are the odds we looked alike? What are the odds that coincidences meant anything in this life?

Maybe she’s just looking for something to make sense.

Just as I waited minutes ago, waiting for it all to mean something, I waited now. I waited for it to mean something. It had to mean something.

I let the cotton fill my ear and the dust particles dance before me. I studied the depictions of angels and men. I glanced at the pamphlet stand full and paused.

I have let many things happen and waited for many moments today, I realized. I let myself be guided into this church, I waited for meaning, I let discomfort and unease dictate my interactions, and I waited for it all to make sense.

I promptly exited the church and briskly walked down the street. I looked down at my feet and consciously directed them, left, right, left, right.

Why do we wait and hope and let? When the unexplained and the uncontrolled become somewhat tangible, no matter how far-fetched or disillusioned, they sneak into our subconscious and nest. They allow us to supersede the concepts of time and meaning with a concentrated essence of will.

My breath turned long and deep. I let myself sit in the discomfort and ambiguity that not everything has to have a meaning. You can subconsciously do things that might not make sense. A place can feel powerful. A woman who looks like you can mistake you for her daughter in a very strangely symbolic way. None of that has to mean anything. And if it does have to mean something, maybe that something is rooted in a different aspect of your life that needs addressing.

I woke my consciousness back up. The electric current of chill in the air returned feeling to my body and mind.

And maybe that’s just it. Maybe it means something, to be able to feel something in this life. Anything. To let yourself feel, through all the waiting and the hoping. And to not know if it does mean something is a part of it all. Just maybe.

I thumped my foot on the concrete floor of the train station, glaring at the schedule of arriving trains hoping another Q would magically appear much sooner.

The screeching of the R train turned my attention. It slowed its course and came to a halt. The doors opened and people flooded out and rushed in.

The R train would take me all around town before getting to where I need to go, but I figured sitting on a train creeping towards my destination was better than grinding my teeth waiting for a seemingly imaginary train that might never come. I sprinted into the train and grabbed an empty seat.

Three adults sat across from me with no space in between them; an older mother and father on the right, their adult son on the left. Or at least I could only assume they were family as the man on the far left was a perfect meld of the older woman and man to his left. The son had the round brown eyes and nose bump of his father and the ginger hair and freckles of his mother.

The mother and father were holding on firmly to their large suitcases, rolling willingly with the tugs and pulls of the erratic train. The son traveled without any bags. Maybe he was picking them up from the airport? Maybe dropping them off?

“How many more stops?” The mother asked the son.

“It’s going to be a lot… maybe 15? Unfortunately, we’re on the R which stops everywhere.” He impatiently searched the screen above my seat for their destination.

The father shifted uncomfortably in his seat, looking at his watch. The mother smiled weakly at the son in reassurance.

“So, what do you do for work?” The mother asked.

I involuntarily scrunched my face in confusion. Maybe she forgot? Come to think of it, I don’t think my mom knows what I do for work.

“I’m between things right now. I bartend at night and work at a cafe during the days for now.” The son looked embarrassed to say this.

“Mary, save the questions for dinner.” The father spoke in a strained, matted voice.

"There’s so much time until dinner, why can’t we catch up now?” She responded.

The father stared at the list of stops in response.

This is Jay Street - Metro Tech. Transfer is available to the A and the C trains.

“So, how have you been, Nathan?” The mother asked.

Both men immediately squirmed in their seats. The longest set of seconds passed by.

“Mary…”

“I can’t ride in silence Peter.” The mother firmly stated.

“Umm…” The son awkwardly responded. “I’ve been better I guess.”

This is Court Street. Transfer is available to the 2 and 4 trains.

“Why, because of the job thing?” The mother genuinely asked.

“Mary!” The father hissed.

This is a Queens-bound R train. The next stop is Whitehall Street. Stand clear of the closing doors.

“It’s ok… um, Peter.” The son said timidly.

The train was rumbling with velocity as it made its way under the East River into Manhattan. The tension between the three adults was palpable, only exasperated by the intense shaking of the cart.

Why did the son just call his dad by his name? Maybe it’s a white person thing? But he was also very hesitant and uncomfortable when he said it. Maybe the dad was actually a stepfather? But there was no mistaking the similarities in their eyes and expressions.

This is Whitehall Street. Transfers available to the 1 train and the Staten Island Ferry.

“Do you like living in the city, Nathan?” The mother started again.

“Yeah, it keeps me busy.” The son muttered, studying his shoes.

“You have to find time to relax and slow down sometimes. Maybe you should move to South Carolina some day!” The mother exclaimed.

“Why the hell would he want to move to South Carolina, Mary. Can you please give it a rest?” The irritation in the father’s eyes was seeping.

“Why wouldn’t he? He can do whatever he wants to do.” The mother responded in irritation as well.

This is Rector Street. The next stop is Courtlandt Street. Stand clear of the closing doors, please.

The train jolted before taking off. The suitcases bumped into each other and veered to the right. The son flinched at the sound of plastic colliding.

“I think it’s… too much.” The son said slowly.

“What, New York? Of course it is Nathan.” The mother nodded knowingly.

“No.” The son looked away in contemplation. “You guys being here like this. It’s a lot.”

“What! We only wanted to see you! You said it’s ok!” The mother cried in an octave higher than her usual voice.

The son shook his head in what seemed like confusion. “I thought it was ok. I didn’t imagine it being like this.”

This is Courtlandt Street. The next stop is City Hall. Stand clear of the closing doors, please.

The mother looked in desperation at the father. The father massaged his temples in an effort to calm his nerves.

“I only wanted to see him.” The mother trembled to the father. “It’s been so long, I only wanted everything to be ok.”

“It’s not ok. This is not ok.” The father sternly looked the mother in the eye.

Hello everyone. The New York City Police Department would like to remind you to keep your belongings in sight and stay aware of your surroundings. If you see something suspicious in the station or on the train, tell a police officer or an MTA employee. Thanks for riding with us.

The train car vigorously shook as it turned a corner.

I didn’t realize I was holding my breath until I went to let out an annoyed scoff at all the distractions in this tense moment. I needed everything to be quiet and calm for just a minute so I could figure out what was going on.

This is City Hall. The next stop is Canal Street. Stand clear of the closing doors, please.

Oh no, my stop was next. I tried to figure out a way to telepathically communicate with the three adults sitting across from me. Tell me, whats happening? What’s your story?

“We can’t just show up randomly after all this time and pretend we’ve been there.” The father calmly stated. The mother looked up to the ceiling of the cart holding back tears.

“I lost someone very dear to me. Now that I found you, I don’t want to lose you again.” The mother attempted to hold the son’s hand but he pulled away.

“You don’t get to decide when you want me.” The son choked slightly on his words.

This is Canal Street.

No, I thought, not yet!

Transfers available to the J, N, Q, and 6 trains.

“It wasn’t my choice Nathan.” The mother begged, a tear dropping from her eyes.

The next stop is Prince Street. Stand clear of the closing doors, please.

I jumped out of my seat and onto the platform, the doors closing behind me. My hair dramatically swept into my face as I watched the train take off.

The station fell into a strange silence as the train disappeared out of view. People exited the station, one or two entered. A man immediately took out his phone and started scrolling. A teenager bobbed his head to the music.

It’s odd how different places in the real world feel like you’ve stepped into a completely different movie. That you can essentially switch the channel in your life whenever you want. That places and people are entire worlds in and of themselves.

I exited the station, thinking about the son. How maybe he grew up feeling abandoned, too young to know the intricacies of the potential situation. How maybe he moved to New York City when he was old enough, trying to find himself, as most people do. Failing and learning within a concrete shell of defense mechanisms and learned behaviors. There was no lack of things to keep busy with in the city - just perfect.

I thought about the mother. We all made stupid mistakes when we were young. Put in situations where we might not have developed a clear voice yet, but it’s too late by then. To lose something that was attached to you in a literal sense, to blame yourself for not trying harder all these years, to hope that one day it will be different. To build a life as best you can because time moves on. Pretending enough to trick yourself, but not pretending too hard in case you get tricked. Never finding the right balance.

I thought about the father. Had he always had a stoic lens on life? Ripping bandaids and facing truths head-on. If you recognize things the way they are, there is nothing left to hide, nothing left to do. There is nothing to long for or to hurt for if there is nothing at all. Dissociative and callused, you understand life at its rawest, purest form. But is there more to life than this?

I thought about the family, maybe not too far off from a stereotypical nuclear family. As time shifts, people change, relationships change, and perspectives change. The love that was once there, still lives, but in a different form. An invisible string that attaches the family, no matter how far they roam away, tugs ever so slightly. Maybe they feel it tug every now and then.

I thought about choices and decisions. I thought about actions and reactions. I thought about spaces and I thought about seconds. I thought about the spaces between seconds. I thought about how not everyone can switch the channel when they please.

My feet dragged on the ground as I walked. I had a choice to listen or not listen to that conversation. I chose to immerse myself in it. I now have a choice to stay on that channel or switch to another one.

I briefly switched the channel to my life as I knew it in that moment; the hustle and bustle of SoHo, two people in the window of a coffee shop sharing a croissant, a shaggy brown dog sniffing a pole on the sidewalk, a child points at a stuffed animal displayed at a street shop.

Every channel contained so many more within it. Of course, I was feeling sonder. The balance of decisions and choices that the stray family on the subway had to face, we all did to some extent. To keep peeking into the lives of others or to be present in your own. When do things stop being empathetic and more intrusive? When does staying in your own lane become closed off, a silent cry for help?

The balance might never be clear.

I picked up my pace and resolved to think that they would be okay. That we’re all just doing our best. That I would switch the channel back into my own life, at least for now, until I found myself in a different world yet again.

The man behind the stall handled the delicate rice rolls with care, intently but swiftly rolling the thin batter so the ingredients wouldn’t fall out while simmering his homemade sauce on the flame. Broad in his slim frame, he must have been only two inches taller than me, but the way he commanded the tiny kitchen was further proof that I needed to try it.

“I’ll have an order of the special rolls please.”

The man gave a quick nod and yelled something in a different language behind him. I peered over his shoulder as I saw no one but him in the kitchen. Who was he talking to?

He must have seen my confused face and looked down beside him. I followed his gaze and noticed a small boy prepping ingredients for the rolls. The boy looked up at me as I smiled and waved, quickly diverting his gaze out of embarrassment. I chuckled.

“Is he your son?” I asked.

“Yes.” The man glanced over at the boy again, who was intensely focused on the task at hand.

“How old is he? He seems to know exactly how to do this!”

“He’s eight. He makes a lot of mistakes.”

I awkwardly chuckled, not sure how to respond to the statement. I was soon thereafter handed a hot plate of steamed rice rolls by the young boy. He cautiously handed me the paper plate and wooden chopsticks without making eye contact. His dark purple polo shirt was too long on his short and skinny stature. His oversized apron engulfed him completely.

The smell consumed me. The soft chewy texture of the roll was exactly what my soul needed. It felt like a home I had never lived in. A home nonetheless. The thick and chewy surface lightly bathed in the salty, spicy, and sweet soy and siracha sauce combination was the perfect play on texture and balance. I let the rolls embrace me.

People seemed to continuously come and go down the street; my dimly sunlight corner table was perfect for people watching as they went about their way. I watched the man yell at the boy for not clearing my table. The boy continued to look down in shame as the man sternly spoke in his native tongue, sharp words that sliced through the air without having to be loud. The young boy came to take my empty plate and chopsticks with his head still down, dragging his feet.

“Thank you for the meal. It was really good. You’re a great chef!” I smiled, trying to cheer him up.

“I’m not a chef.” He whispered. Those were the first words I had heard him say.

“A chef is someone who makes yummy food, and you did just that. So you’re a chef, and I’d say you’re a great one.”

“My dad did most of it.”

“Yeah, but I saw you help out a lot. Do you like cooking?”

He took a quick look behind his shoulder. His dad was too busy serving other customers to notice our conversation.

“Yeah,” He shrugged.

As I struggled to keep the conversation going, the man sternly pushed the boy towards the cart, speaking in another language, clearly not happy. The boy hurried away with his head hung low.

“I’m sorry, I was asking him questions. He is a really sweet boy.” I apologized.

“Sweet will not get him anywhere in life.” The man turned to observe his son disdainfully. “He needs structure and discipline. That’s why I make him work the shop with me.”

I looked down with a level of discomfort that was not unfamiliar. Culturally, I’ve seen and experienced this in different ways and forms. I ached for the boy, obedient and diligent. I felt for the father, concerned and rigid. Both only wanting for each other, but their wants fundamentally different. The rift grows steeper with time.

“What do you want for him in life?” I asked.

“Success.” He replied almost immediately.

“What does that mean to you?”

“It means he understands the meaning of time.”

The answer caught me off guard. It was so far from what I expected him to say that I had to pause and reflect.

“I know you’re busy, thank you for talking with me and for the delicious food,” I responded.

The man gave a swift nod and went back to tending the shop. I watched him fall back into the order of things; how easily everything seemed for him. I must have imagined the millisecond of a moment when the father sheepishly glanced at his son as he simmered the sauce with a steady gaze. It must have been a hallucination, the way I thought he reconsidered everything for the briefest moment, overcome with doubt and washed over with raw love.

Time. I continued my stroll down the crowded streets of Chinatown. What is the meaning of time? Time is everything, and it’s nothing. Time is singlehandedly the most powerful construct in the world. But it’s just that - a construct. If you understand the meaning of time, you understand everything. You understand how to prioritize tasks, how to respect others, how to heal, how to create, how to lose.

That is quite the standard to hold an 8-year-old. To instill the discipline and willpower needed to wield the master key to life as we know it, and to believe that it can be done.

I laid in bed that night ruminating on the interaction. The more I realized the weight of this man’s definition of success, the more I knew I needed to talk to him again. I didn’t even know what to ask or what to say, I just needed to understand.

The next day I found myself back at the steamed rice roll stand. The familiar smells and scenery seemed emphasized today as if the looming presence of unlocking the meaning of life made everything more.

“Oh, you’re back. Same order?” The man asked. The boy peered from behind the counter, recognizing me as well.

“Yes, please.”

I ate the steamed rice slowly, hoping that the more time I took, the better chance that the right words would come to me. Time proved me wrong. The plate was soon empty as the boy came to clear my setting.

“The food was yummy per usual, thank you! Good to see you again.” I exclaimed at the boy.

He gave me a soft smile, but not for long. He hurried back to the counter to prep for the next customer.

The man was taking multiple orders and seemed busy. I resolved to never know the secret of the universe and gathered my things to leave when I felt a soft tap on my back. I turned around to notice the boy, nervously looking behind him.

“Hey! Everything ok?” I asked.

“What did you say to my dad yesterday?” He asked quietly.

“Oh,” I paused in confusion. “I told him you’re a sweet boy.”

He furrowed his eyebrows in confusion. “Did I say something wrong?” I asked, concerned about what the father might have said about the interaction.

The boy shook his head no. “He said I can go home yesterday right after you left. I don’t know why.”

I exhaled in sharp pain. I imagined this young boy working hard for hours in a day, never taking a day off. Wanting to emulate the image of his father doing the same – his strong and dedicated presence while serving sustenance to those in the community who trust in them to do so. Being told to go home felt like a slap in the face. A sign of failure and defeat, that you make things worse here. You’d be better off anywhere else doing anything else other than what you do with all your days and hours. You are not enough.

“Maybe he was finished for the day and wanted you to get some rest!” I offered encouragingly.

The boy looked at me a moment longer before swiftly nodding and returning to the cart. His father acknowledged his return with a brief nod before glancing at me.

I waved my hand in departure and the man bowed before returning to his customers. The boy was too busy to acknowledge anything.

I walked home, leaving the stream and aroma behind me. I tried to imagine myself as the boy walking home yesterday in utter confusion. It was probably the first time he experienced daylight on his walk home. The colors of the setting sun casting a rosy glow over the buildings and the streets.

I wondered if maybe the father had thought about the weight of his words, about the meaning of time. What if our conversation reset something in him, deciding on a whim that his son should have the evening off. To experience his time differently, in a different light, in a different way. Maybe the father wanted for his son the perspective on time that he never had, just for an evening.

In front of me walked two men, one greying and one in his mid 30s. I wondered if this was a man and his father. I wondered if they ever thought about success and time. Or perhaps they were just walking in this moment, success and time a different concept for another day. Right now, understanding that the present is the only moment that we have now and will never get back.

Maybe I didn’t need to understand the secret to success the father seemed to know. Maybe what is right in this moment is the only understanding of time we need. Maybe we’re all just figuring it out, and that’s ok. Only time will tell.

"I think you deserve to win," He stared at his pieces and then hers.

"Don't go easy on me because I'm old, that would be demeaning." She chuckled.

"Why'd you say deserve?" I laughed.

He pushed another pawn up a space. I noted down the move. "I think she deserves to!" He smiled. "She's already got me beat in her head, probably. Plus I'm tired today, this is too much thinking for me."

The elderly woman smiled. "Too much partying last night?"

He offered a small smile and shrugged half-heartedly. "It's a Tuesday at 9am."

"I've done crazier things back in my day than party on a Monday night and volunteer the next morning." She smirked. She carefully placed her piece to the adjacent spot on the board. I noted down the move.

My peer let out a small quiet laugh, almost forced. I suddenly furrowed my brows in concern, studying his face. The woman seemed to be doing the same.

"I got in a fight with my dad yesterday," He spoke timidly, "but nothing out of the ordinary I guess." He stayed leaned back in his chair and reached over to the chessboard to move another piece.

"What happened?" I asked cautiously.

He shook his head and continued to look intently at the board. "Just dumb stuff. We've never seen eye to eye but..." He trailed off.

"But you keep going back." The woman shifted her piece on the board.

He nodded and shrugged. "It's what you do. It's just what you do."

"Yes, it is." The woman slowly leaned forward in her chair. "You know, my father was an alcoholic. But not until later in my life, maybe when I turned 16 or so."

"I'm sorry." I offered my sympathy. She smiled.

"It's a disease of the mind, it is. But I couldn't stop thinking about the man he used to be when I was a child; kind and caring." She glanced at him to see his reaction.

"Because you craved familiarity." He paused slightly before moving his piece forward.

"Yes," She said. "I did. I mean, I do, still." Her face slowly became consumed in thought. "Maybe that's why my late husband was the way he was."

I had an idea of what she meant but I didn't want to say it out loud. Judging by the look on my peer's face, I could tell he was thinking the same.

"Why?" He asked solemnly.

"Why was he an alcoholic?" She clarified.

"No, why did you choose him. Despite everything you've experienced in your life, you chose him." He seemed frustrated for her. As if he wanted to turn back the handles of time and yell at her to stop. The murmurs in the room grew more saturated.

She exhaled as she retracted her pawn to its original space. "I don't know. All I can say is, do it right this time. Don't give up. You're going to meet the same person many different times in many different forms. Especially when you live to be as old as me. But if you don't learn to navigate the first person the first time, it's only going to get harder. When you repeat a mistake it's not a mistake anymore, it's a decision."

I remember him looking into her eyes with a flurry of emotions; frustration, confusion, sadness. I too didn't know what she meant for a long time. I remember ending the game early, waving goodbye to the woman, and walking to the bus stop with my peer, waiting to go home. We stood in silence, the saturated murmurs of the residential center lurking behind us.

It wasn't until almost 2 years later that I understood. I watched a young couple argue in a grocery store parking lot. I admit to watching them from my car rearview mirror with curious eyes. Although they were waving their arm animatedly and shouting loudly, I couldn't help but notice their feet and their eyes. Their feet pointed towards the other person's feet and their eyes were soft, almost sorrowful. I felt like they knew each other for a lifetime, maybe more.

And I realized, it's just that. Familiarity and deserving. Two words spoken years ago floated back into my mind. Why are people attracted to a certain type of person? Whether it be alcoholics or angry partners or something else. Maybe it stems from a sense of familiarity. Maybe people are drawn to the things they've experienced before but never had a chance to rectify. Maybe people subconsciously put themselves back in these situations to master it in a different string of time, to bring closure to trauma and hurt.

Maybe people, deep down, know they can be loved, but feel the need to earn it. To deserve it. To put themselves back in situations to prove to themselves, to others, that they can do it right this time. And when it goes right, they can find peace. They can find love.

I sat in that grocery store parking lot, inches away from the arguing couple, years and miles away from the elderly woman and my peer, wishing it was as easy as opening my mouth and letting my findings see the light. Wishing I could somehow convey that time heals and kills. Wishing it was easy to tell the difference.

Out of my peripheral, a stranger to the left of me quickly glanced away from me, clearly having been caught staring. I noticed they didn't have any baggage or belongings besides their phone. How odd to be taking a 2 and a half hour train without anything to carry.

They sheepishly met my observing eyes and said "I really like your jacket."

I looked down at my jacket. "Oh thanks, I got it online off an Instagram ad."

"Those things really get you," they chuckled. "I bought a gag gift from those ads for my partner one time and now it won't stop showing me ads for socks that say 'If you can read this, bring me wine',"

I laughed. "Oh the things we endure for our partners."

Their face suddenly went grim and they looked awkwardly out their window. "Sorry, I don't know why I said partner."

"Oh," I paused, not sure what that implied.

"It's kind of weird. I'm actually going to break up with him." They continued to look out the window. The gloom outside persisted.

"Oh. Like, right now?" I asked.

They nodded towards me. A small smile returned to their face. "It's all good, I promise. I'm standing up for myself."

"That's great then!" I smiled.

"It's just that, I don't know why I feel like crap if I'm doing the right thing, you know?" They leaned in slightly towards me, their eyes scanning mine for answers, comfort, anything.

"Sometimes doing the right thing doesn't feel right," I said softly. "Because that one right thing is usually connected to so many more variables, and those variables are affected too. And suddenly, you making one right decision will cloud 20 other things that were seemingly unrelated. And it's a lot for you to comprehend so your brain loops it all into one package to try to understand it. But all that does is make things seem confusing and sad and wrong."

They continued to look into my eyes, then sat back and looked ahead after a few prolonged seconds. "Stupid brain." They murmured.

"Hey, it's a good sign that you started off by saying this is a good thing. You know to some extent that that's right in the end." I tried to encourage them.

"No, you're definitely right." They sighed. "I just have been coming to terms with everything I've been through lately. And like you said, it's been a lot. It's been like me screaming at my past self trying to shake my own shoulders, screaming 'hey! snap out of it!'"

I nodded. The scenery of dead trees and abandoned buildings turned into miles of yellowing tall grass. The shake of the train steadied.

"Just so much anger. So much resentment and disappointment and guilt. I betrayed myself in the end because I lied to myself. I lied about my emotional capacity and when he kept asking for more, I kept saying yes. It made me a liar. It made me a traitor to myself." They glanced at my face as though to check if they were making sense.

"But here you are, having realized that." I ensured. "Who you're becoming is more important than who you've been."

They sat with those words for a few moments. "Who I'm becoming..." They trailed off. "I'm in some weird state with myself right now. I want to be held but I don't want him to get too close. I want him to take me home at night but I don't want to tell him where I am. I want to section off a place of the earth where no one can find me, but I want to be with him."

I exhaled. "To be loved is harder than loving. More than you just learning to navigate yourself, you're also just learning to accept love in a way that compliments that acceptance of yourself. It's a long process."

They stared at their feet and chuckled. "I knew your choice in jacket was a sign I should talk to you."

I laughed. The train came to a slow rumble as it rolled into the station. The scenery speckled with more and more modern glass skyrises as the train came to a stop.

I wished them luck as they got off at the station and watched them hesitate at the platform, looking at the glass skyrises, before walking away. The scenery outside transitioned as the train started on it's journey again. I took one last look at the glass structures as they seemingly floated away.

Glass skyrises sounded like a paradox, something that didn't make sense. Like how a bee shouldn't be able to fly, I wondered how structures built of glass were able to tower above the world without shattering. The metal and steel hidden behind the seemingly fragile outsides are the unseen, unmoving core needed to sustain such structures.

I hoped when they stopped to view the skyrises, they realized the steps they took immediately after was the first placements of their own steel core. Their outer glass was reflective of both their internal state and outer environment; their inner reflection radiating warmth and brighter times, the outer reflection allowing me to see myself in them. The reflection and the core, shaping all things we strive to be and empowering those around us to build stronger and higher. Even if looking down from the top seems scary, self-love is worth it in the end.

I looked around and found one or two people placed far in the corner of the small art exhibit, clearly not the receiver of his question. I realized it must be me.

I studied the painting he was referring to. It depicted a girl falling. The air around her was streaked with delicate acrylic streams of white wind.

"You think so?" I asked. "I think it's quite sad."

He looked at me inquisitively. "I guess so. I just think it doesn't fit in with the rest of the exhibit."

I scanned the room. He was right. All the other paintings were portraits painted in different styles of different people. "You think that's an intentional decision by the artist?" I asked.

"Oh definitely," He nodded. "It gets people to stop and talk about it. But not even specifically just this painting, but it's relation to everything else in this room too. That's smart of the artist."

"I can't even remember the last time I was stopped in my track like this for art, actually." I ruminated.

"I saw this photo series once that struck me," He said. "It was really simple too. I think most profound things are."

"We like to make things complicated, don't we." I chuckled. "The people considered the most intelligent are those who make complicated things simple."

He smirked and let out a small laugh.

"What was the photo series?" I asked.

"A children's toy. I think it was a cow or something. There was a before picture where it was nice and new and an after picture where it was tattered and clearly heavily played with." He recalled.

"Sounds like it was heavily loved rather than heavily played with?" I suggested.

"Oh yes," His face lit up. "The series was called 'Too Much Love' I think."

"What did you see?" I asked.

"It's interesting actually, I was with my dad at the time. I just saw it for what it was, a toy that's been used a lot. And he saw it for something deeper. He just said, love will do that to you." He laughed. "And I told him, yeah that's the whole point of the series, dad. But he explained it better after that, I hope I don't butcher this. But he said love will wear you down and turn you into something else, still yourself but now fundamentally changed. I wasn't buying it, personally. I told him the fundamental change didn't look great at all, who would want to be worn down and broken-looking like that. He told me that he would rather be aware of his imperfections through love than remain perfect and unloved."

"Wow," I let out a sharp breath. "I would have to agree with your dad."

"I do agree with him. It's just harder for me to digest it, I think." He looked to the next piece of art.

"How so?" I was curious.

"Him talking about love like that is..." He shook his head, "it's complicated."

I grazed the next painting with an unfocused gaze, waiting for his explanation. A portrait of a man posing with a strong complexion.

"It's like that with parents, I think. I probably don't have a unique experience. They cut up fruit for you and bring it to your room without asking, but you can't remember the last time they told you they're proud of you. They call you every day asking if you're well and you've eaten, but you'll never be good enough for them. You go through everything and nothing together. They know you, but they don't know you."

I glanced at him and nodded. The portrait came into more focus, the man's eyes softened, but the intensity persisted.

"I guess he experienced a love so fulfilling that he wouldn't mind being worn down with it, but he somehow forgot to give that to me." He grimaced, looking at the portrait of the man.

"I don't think he forgot," I explained. "I think he's trying to show you in his own way what he might have learned. It might have gotten a little mistranslated along the way."

He shrugged, nonchalantly moving to the next portrait.

"I really do think that." I continued, trying to convince him. "The cut fruit, the daily calls, and even his little line about always picking love. It's all just his indirect way of telling you that he's made mistakes and he doesn't know how to tell you to your face that he loves you because he doesn't want to mess things up again like he might've done in the past."

"He hasn't let love fundamentally change him." He mused silently.

"But he wants that for you. And maybe even a small part of him wants that for himself, coming from you. He just might not know where to start." I encouraged. "Don't go waiting around for change to happen to you. You're the change you've been looking for."

He finally broke his stare with the portrait and looked down at his shoes. He then turned to me and excused himself, thanking me for the conversation as he left the room.

I'd like to think he left the room and the museum itself, picked up the phone, called his dad and told him he doesn't have to be afraid to be vulnerable and that he loves him. But I can't be sure. Love is a vulnerable set of decisions where you intentionally decide to give someone your whole self and accept them for their entirety as well, good with the bad. Maybe he left to find the photo series again, practicing telling the battered toy cow all the things he wishes he could tell his father. And maybe life is precisely just that; trusting love in all the ways it alters yourself and those around you and finding a way to close your eyes and take the leap.

"Hello?" A voice said.

"Oh hi! Sorry I didn't see you hop on the call. How are you?" I smiled.

"Good, good. Sorry, I'm late." She said wearily. The bags under her eyes were prominent and dark, almost weighing her eyes down with them, leaving a sunken expression.

"No need for apologies," I said. This seemed to catch her off-guard as her eye twitched ever so slightly. "Thanks again for taking the time out of your day to speak with me! As you know, I'm conducting an interview on behalf of the autism center here, where I act in the capacity of a consultant. I'm just going to ask you a couple of questions about your experience working at this center as an employee. Just so I'm not focused on writing while we speak, would it be ok if I recorded our conversation solely for the purpose of the transcription?"

She hesitated before asking, "is the center going to hear or see this?"

"No, absolutely not! Your name will stay anonymous and the audio or transcript won't be distributed to anyone at the autism center." I assured.

She seemed to hesitate again. "Ok sure."

I nodded and started auto-transcribing the conversation. "So, what do you do at the autism center?"

"I'm part of the janitorial staff." She said dimly.

"Great! Do you have interactions with any of the other staff members or residents outside of professional duties?" I asked.

"Um... yes I guess," Her voice trailed, almost confused.

"In what capacity? Like chatting in the staff lounge for example?" I asked.

"No... I usually keep to myself with other staff." She said timidly. "But I do talk to one of the residents."

"Oh great, can you describe what you guys talk about or do?" I questioned.

"Uh... actually he's my little brother. So I guess we just talk about everything. Mainly me just checking up on him during the day." She studied her hands intently.

"That's great that you get to spend extra time with him! Seems like you two are close." I smiled.

She shrugged with her head still stooped, staring at her lap. "Yeah. It's hard though."

"May I ask what are some of the difficulties you're facing?" I questioned.

"This is anonymous right?" She suddenly stared right into my eyes, her eyes sparkled with tears accumulating.

"Yes, of course, everything stays between you and me. I don't even share your name with my colleagues and the autism center won't even get the transcript, they'll just get an aggregated report of tons of other interviews lumped into a few trends. Like, 'your employees feel burnt out' for example." I assured her. I wanted to reach out into the screen and hold her hand. She looked like she had been through hell and back with nowhere to turn. Scarred, burnt. Ashes.

"Ok because I had a really hard couple of days. Maybe weeks, I don't know. And I know this is a random interview for a work thing in the middle of the stupid day but I feel like I know you. I know you and you know me. Somehow, even though we've never met. I don't know, don't ask me what I mean." Tears streamed down her face at this point, she was getting a little agitated.

"I'm here for you. I've been told I'm a good listener, I won't judge. This doesn't even need to be in my analysis, don't worry." I was hoping she could feel my genuine through the screen.

She took a sharp breath and started, "my brother has autism. Obviously."

I nodded.

"I'm not going to bore you with my sob story of a childhood but he was adopted by my shitty parents who were obviously unfit to raise children. He went undiagnosed for years. And when the news finally broke, they left." She looked away, trying to hide her tears.

"They left?" I clarified.

"They couldn't take it, whatever that means, and they disappeared off the face of the planet. They could be dead for all I know. And I ended up taking custody of my brother."

"Oh wow, that must have been so hard..." I empathized.

"I was just in college. I didn't even know my brother that well because I lived away from them. But how can you look at a kid and just think 'Yeah, I'm ok sending this kid to foster care.' I couldn't. I couldn't..." She sniffed.

"That was really big of you. Extremely courageous too, given you were just a kid yourself." My heart ached.

"But I'm not though. I'm not big or courageous or anything. I am my parent's daughter." She scoffed. "You want to know the worst thing in the world?"

I nodded.

"I thought about killing myself at least once a day back then. At least." She buried her face in her hands, ashamed. The call fell to silence for a few moments. "I thought to myself, wow those bastards got out easy. And here I am fighting for my life and this autistic kid's life. It's not fair. It's not fair."

I was stunned. Tears had rimmed my eyes and I could do nothing but sit silently in solidarity, hundreds of miles away. I went to say something but only a weak whisper left my lips and I fell silent again.

"I would stand in the shower for hours, watching the water hit my skin, wondering if I stood there long enough if this hand would still be my hand and if this skin would still be ... me. Like water would magically melt me into my true form. Some sick twisted version of my parents."

"No." My voice cracked. "You're far from being your parents. Because look, at the end of the day, you're here. And your love for your brother is so bright it's blinding. He's in an amazing facility getting help and you've taken a job to be close with him and help him through."

She shook her head in disbelief. "I love him. But it doesn't feel like love. It feels like I'm constantly just trying to evade my guilt from years ago."

"Love isn't this huge explosive moment where your life changes and then suddenly every day is just roses and peaches. It's far from that. Love is, at most, an urge at first. Maybe a little tug at your sleeve. And from there, it's a series of conscious, intentional decisions. It's just a lifetime of decisions." I wiped a stray tear from my face.

"Decisions..." She whispered.

She gave a small nod and thanked me for the talk but said she had to go start her shift soon at the autism center. I told her to take care and to give my best to her brother. A small smile emerged from her lips.

I still think about her from time to time. The strength she carried for all these years and continues to do so. How selfless you must be to give your life to a stranger when you didn't even want to be alive yourself. She burned for so long, so quietly, wondering when the flame would fade and the match would wither away, leaving the silhouette of demons never conquered. I hope she knows the day hasn't come and it will not come. Her flame still burns strong.

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I've always felt cars are such intimate spaces; their doors secure those inside and the seatbelts swaddle its passengers. There's something about going 70 miles miles per hour on the open road before dawn breaks the horizon that fosters vulnerability. The faded black sky streaked with passing street light painted an eerily soft moment of what it's like to feel alone despite not being alone.

I peered over at the car's clock from the back seat - 4:00am sharp. My eyes strayed upwards towards the rear view mirror where a piece of folded paper was tied and strung up to the mirror like a pendant on a necklace. I made eye contact with the driver in the rear view mirror as he caught me staring at his peculiar note. He seemed embarrassed and quickly darted his eyes away.

"That's an interesting charm you have hanging from your mirror," I said, clearly fishing for information.

"It's a note," the driver said. He glanced at the note for long enough before focusing back on the road to indicate it had a much deeper meaning.

"A happy one?" I asked.

He shrugged and seemed to close off. I realized I might've pushed too much and respectfully stopped talking.

A few minutes later, as if no time had passed at all, he softly said, "It's from my husband actually."

"That's sweet," I encouraged. "How long have you guys been married?"

"It would've been almost 5 years," His voice trailed.

"I'm sorry, I didn't realize..." I wasn't sure if he had passed away or if they had split or something else.

"I'm also sorry." He said curtly. The street lights outside seemed to dance in the darkness, my seatbelt seemed to tighten. "People think that when they find love, their suffering ends. That's not the case at all. They think it's some magical liposuction that sucks out all the bad parts and makes you beautiful again."

"I learned that's not the case the hard way." I said, watching the road slide under the car like water. "Love doesn't fix. It helps us cope and reflects our flaws in a softer light."

"With real love, anyways." He almost whispered. "Most beautiful stories don't have beautiful endings because fate is stronger than love."

4:21am. I'm nearing the airport and still have no context for the note hanging from the mirror. I could feel his hurt and his pain, his longing and his regret. I needed to know.

Almost as if he heard my thoughts, he said, "My husband had Alzheimer's and he passed away. A few months before he did, we got a divorce."

"I am so sorry. I can't even imagine." My heart ached.

"He was still young, but we knew he came from a long family line of the disease. So I guess it was a cautionary divorce." He shrugged. "He said he wanted to protect my view of him just as he was then, stagnant in stone."

"How did that make you feel?" I asked, knowing fully what the answer would be.

"Like a stupid child. Like I can't be trusted. When I say I love someone, I love every single part of them, not just the liposuction parts. I would've been there for him till the end." He clenched the steering wheel.

"But he was too afraid..." I ruminated. "Vulnerability is the last thing he wanted to see wanted you to see in him, but the first thing you looked for in him."

He unclenched his hands from the wheel and carefully lifted the note from the mirror. He handed it to me without taking his eyes off the road.

"Careful." He said, eyes still directed ahead.

I nodded and opened up the little note. It unfurled into a beige sticky note with two words scribbled on it - call husband. It must have been a reminder note as his memory started to flicker.

He pulled into the domestic departures section of the airport and stopped the car. I carefully folded the note back into its original state and placed it into his hand. "Thank you for sharing this with me."

He nodded, studying the folded note. I gathered my bags and got out of the car. The cold morning air greeted me. I saw him string the note back onto his rearview mirror and drive away.

I stood there dumbfounded for a few minutes, just people-watching. Hugs, kisses, pats on the back, and waves surrounded me. The street lights luminated these faces, happy, sad, and everything in between. Was it fate or was it love? Grabbing my bags, I decided it had to be both. For sometimes, fate and love cross paths and dance alongside each other, like the street lights danced in the moonlight, curating the most beautiful experiences known to humans. We just have to be brave enough to be vulnerable; to see and to be seen.

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