You didn’t mean to stop here, but your weary feet brought you anyways. You sit down at the intersection and watch the rhythm of the traffic swirl around you: a Van Gogh twilight, this time of metal and rubber, not pastels and paint.

Everyone is always in such a rush, you think to yourself. Always inching forward at the crosswalk, eager to save a few seconds, their own personal rebellion against that unmoving red hand. When they do cross, it’s with an air of distinct intention. A businessman, a runner, a mother pushing a stroller with a leather purse snaked around her shoulder, all with places to go: maybe home, maybe somewhere else, but never this city bench. Here time seems to freeze and accelerate at the same time.

The mother walks by - for a moment, the closest anyone is to you - only for her to disappear behind the corner bodega a few seconds later. You never see her again.

All sorts of people pass by this city bench, you realize. You wonder if any of them know each other. Their lives arc out in front of your eyes, as if our existence is a little line meandering through the city. They intersect for an infinitely brief moment, but in that breath, it’s like they’re the only other person in the city.

You see a hand wander out to grasp another’s. People, you think, need other people. It is its own brand of comfort in a world that refuses to stop for you: the steady presence of one more lost human attaching themselves at your side. Who are your people? You have shared thousands of glances with thousands of strangers. There’s something unspoken that bridges your gazes when it happens. You never think it matters, except sometimes you really do.

You get up from the city bench in a hurry, seeing that the next subway is only two minutes away.

You don’t realize the sun is setting until it’s already out of sight.