FRIEND

Sonder: The realization that each random passerby is living a life as vivid and complex as your own.

On the subway ride home from work, I roll my eyes and shut off my phone as my senses are flooded with digital inspiration on how to be the “main character.” At the risk of sounding cynical, it’s foolish for us to believe we have scored a leading role in life.

The more I relentlessly search for moments that make me feel like the protagonist, the more disappointed I am with reality as an extra.

As I look up from my device and scan the subway car, my eyes land on unfamiliar faces. We don’t know each other, but we are tied together with a common thread: humanity.

An obscure but poignant feeling tugs at the corners of my heart when I accept that each individual around me is not merely a background character in my existence. I am the star at the center of my own unfolding narrative, but I do not play the leading role in anyone else’s. Each person sitting around me has their own friends, their own desires, their own baggage they lug around with them.

That realization, while marred by the constant societal pressure to grasp at scraps of originality, is at the forefront of understanding what it means to be alive. While it is easy for us to lose ourselves in the intensity of our existentialism, the idea that everyone else has a story should alleviate our misplaced sense of solitude.

We look out our apartment windows and see others in the distance, each giving us glimpses into their worlds. Even when the unsettling feeling that we are eavesdropping sinks in, we can’t seem to peel our eyes away. Emotionally estranged couples erratically yell at each other, fighting to keep sinking relationships afloat. Aspiring self-taught chefs follow convoluted recipes, frantically stirring and hoping they keep their delicacies from burning. Children create crayon masterpieces while sitting cross-legged on couches. Students spend hours hunched over their textbooks and laptops, and bibliophiles let the world slip away as fiction absorbs them. Sometimes we peer in on individuals sitting in solitude, and we may even miss the tears silently streaming down their faces.

Others gaze out their windows and see us, pondering what our worlds might be like. In the films of our lives, there are no directors to yell cut. When our curtains are drawn, none of our neighbors can perceive how our tape keeps rolling, creating outtakes of our at-home vulnerability. At times, we forget to draw our curtains, giving strangers a behind-the-scenes look. Those who are on the outside looking in notice us as we mindlessly flip through channels on our televisions, or as we scramble to grab our keys and get out the door. When we are lost in endless productivity at coffee shops or scurrying down busy streets with our headphones in, an audience of passersby also acknowledges us. We may never appear in their lives again, but our existence permeates their own human experience.

We may spend our existence trying, but we’re not always going to feel like the main character. There are times in which we take a supporting role, and more often than not, we are the extras in the cameos and subplots woven into the complexities of life. Instead of becoming resentful about having to share the spotlight, we can choose to embrace our scripts and revel in our time on set.

V E RI TA S: IN V I N O FR IEND A F R O M T H A TRU

SOFIA RAMOS BY

Music rumbles the wood of the black door, and gold gleams through its cracks. I lean against the surrounding red brick, arms folded under my long leather coat to block out the bitter New England cold. I raise a gloved hand to my mouth and pull away the cigarette kissing my lips. Warmth fills my chest, and a rich earthy taste still lingers in my mouth after the smoke escapes it. I drop my arm and flick the remnants to the floor, stepping on them with black boots as I approach Billy’s. The door opens to a dim room of scattered spotlights and a sea of chatter. I dig around in my coat pockets as I make my way past the piano man, dropping the residual coins from today’s shift in the jar sitting atop his piano case. He nods his head in gratitude and continues to play his tune. Sinking myself into a seat at the bar at the rear end of the restaurant, I wave down the bartender. We exchange words as I order, but I barely acknowledge — my head is full. Not because of the what she says woman yelling at her boyfriend over the table in the corner, or the radio broadcasting live updates on the violent LA riots in the kitchen; I’m full of a week’s worth of thoughts. I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. I feel stuck. I need a drink.

The bartender slides an amber whiskey glass across the bar. An orange slice sinks to the bottom as ice floats to the top, and a garnish of maraschino cherries finishes it neatly. My mind starts to feel devoid of any worries in just looking at the drink. As I nibble the skewered fruit, a delicate figure walks up behind me and takes the empty seat to my left. To my surprise, it’s a woman’s voice who chimes at the bartender. I glance over at the long-legged, platinum blonde, and she looks perfect; flawless skin and a beautiful demeanor, she oozes self-confidence. I take a sip of my drink and eye the crimson stain my lips leave on the rim. She peels off her brown coat, exposing a black turtleneck and blue jeans, and peers over at me. “So, how’s your night going?” “It's been fine,” I answer as I spin my glass. “Same old, nothing new.” That’s the problem. She looks back at me, eyebrow raised, exposing a bright smile as she brings a green olive to her lips, prompting me to explain further. I tell her my story from the start; that of the typical, washed-up artist working a nine-to-five at a diner. I had told myself it would be until I had enough money to get started, but it became steady income to get me by, and one year soon turned into three. I’ve had my fun, I’ve grown to love the people I’ve surrounded myself with, and I’m content with life, but that’s it. I’m just content. “I’m too late,” I lament as I allow the thoughts plaguing my mind to pour out. “I’ve missed my window in life. I came here setting out to do one thing but got sidetracked. Now, I have no idea why I’m here or where I’m going — if anywhere, at that. How would I even get out? Is it even my purpose to get out?” She watches me and lets out a sigh as she plays with the olives in her martini.