Maybe I could know you

Worlds we enter, worlds we leave

Walking through the bustling streets of Berlin, we talk about how all of this would still be happening even if we weren’t here to witness it. 

That couple would still sit down at the Italian restaurant around the corner to eat; that woman still bike to her corporate job that day; that family still go see that acrobat show. All of them would be doing what they’re doing, going about their lives just the same. The only difference is that we wouldn’t know about it.

There are so many lives we never get a peek into. So many stories we never hear. There’s a word for it: Sonder. The realisation that each passerby has a life as vivid and complex as our own. It’s filled with their own ambitions, friends, routines, and worries. Invisible stories floating around us, with passageways to thousands of other lives we’ll never know existed.¹

Who we choose to take in, engage with, befriend, is kinda like browsing through a playlist and hitting play. Like tracing our fingers along book spines at a library and picking one off the shelf. We can’t choose them all. But we can choose some of them. Any of them, really. 

Berlin feels airy. The streets are wide, the buildings large and sharp.

At the currywurst kiosk at Checkpoint Charlie², the man behind the counter cuts the sausages like he has done a thousand times before. Outside the university, a girl walks out its baroque doors wearing grey sweatpants and a heavy backpack, plugging in her headphones. At a crosswalk I overhear a woman tell her friend: “They break up, but they always come crawling back.” 

Stories seem to seep through the pavement. They lock eyes with me at every street corner, and all I can think about is: Hi, maybe I could know you. 

Maybe I could know your favourite ice cream flavour and what you dreamt last night. Maybe I could listen to you complain about the assignment due next week, or we could watch that show you like. You could tell me about the boy who broke your heart. Or how you spilled tomato sauce all over your shirt at work – I promise not to laugh. You can sit on the kitchen counter, I’ll make us some tea.

Meeting someone, we’re thrown into a new world in the middle of a plot. At the beginning we might not be sure who, what, or where, but slowly we start connecting the dots. We get to see their home and their favourite spots. Get to know their friends and family. Their secrets and embarrassing stories. Memorise their quirks and dreams and worries.

We learn what posters hung on their bedroom walls at 13. What they had for lunch today, and how they once buried their dead pet fish in the garden. We get to know their freckled back. Their thoughts on Love Is Blind. 

Letting someone into your world — showing them around the house of you — can be quite a vulnerable thing. We let someone into the living room, not sure what they will think of it or how long they want to stay. Maybe we show them the kitchen, perhaps the bedroom and bathroom too. Some turn in the door. Some leave after dinner. Others bring their toothbrush and move in. They help us redecorate and unpack some stuff we’ve kept in boxes. Find their way into the dark basement and give it some TLC. Air out the attic.

Some worlds we enter and stay in forever. Others we only stop by for a visit.

Leaving a world evidently means leaving its people, places, and inside jokes behind. And even if we’re not in it anymore, that world will still keep spinning. There will be new stories we won’t hear. New memories we won’t be a part of. Perhaps they end up doing that thing we always encouraged them to do. Try out that recipe. Write that book.

It’s impossible to leave worlds exactly how we found them. Entering a world inevitably means changing it. All the big things would perhaps still have happened, but presence alters trajectories, even in the smallest of ways. It nudges and lingers and none come out of it unaffected. 

Maybe we find ourselves using their slang from time to time. Wear that piece of jewellery they gifted. Smile when that one song starts playing. We carry with us the random knowledge we accumulated: the facts about golf; the chant of their favourite football team; the ways in which World of Warcraft works. We know store-bought leeks continue to grow if we put them in a glass of water, because they showed us. And how stomping our foot hard while singing can make us hit a higher note.

We’re constellations of everyone we’ve ever cared about. We never truly leave a world empty handed.

At a café, I sit and watch as the streets spill over with nameless faces. I’m just like them. One of the many. A customer; a girl waiting at a stop sign; a blur walking past; an extra sipping coffee in the background.

I have caused some ripples by being here, but the linden trees would still bloom. The subway would still run on time. The birds still sing at dawn. 

I won’t get to know the rest of the story. Whether that couple at the Italian restaurant get married or break up. If that woman got to work on time, and if she ends up getting that promotion she wants. I won’t know what the youngest kid in that family ends up becoming. Or if that girl passes her exam.

The streets of Berlin will continue its bustle when I leave.

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1. Tweaked description from The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows.

2. Very good currywurst, 10/10 recommend this place.