Sometimes in the tunnel, two trains will pass each other by; drifting along at the same speed. I stand, clutching to a silver pole for balance, sandwiched between bodies in an air conditioned car, and that is all I notice. There are windows on trains but no sky or sea or air to marvel at, only the darkness of the underground. The passengers in the other train are anonymous to me. They all live separate lives with complex stories, ones that I will never know but always wonder about. If I hold my breath long enough the other car zips by us and it looks so close like they’ll crash together at any second, and my life will become intertwined with theirs. Two worlds collide but never touch. They are a part of my story, and I am strangely a part of theirs; the businessman sipping his coffee, the mom holding firmly to her baby in a stroller, tourists from Germany, Bangladesh, and Australia, street performers trying hard to pay their rent and students like me buzzing away in journals with headphones in their ears to isolate themselves from the outside world.