And so for the rest of my evening walk, my thoughts bounced back and forth between my deepest reflections and dealing with the metallic sting in my mouth. I spit my gum out at the nearest trash can, and walked down 75th street in Jackson Heights, Queens: my new home as of 2016. For a neighborhood that is constantly bustling with noise and people, it’s awfully quiet and solemn tonight (aside from the occasional clatter from the 7 train and the hum of running cars).

I took a left onto Broadway and caught glimpse of a homeless man sleeping in a multi-colored, floral blanket. I forced my eyes to look elsewhere, as I tucked my head down and continued my walk; you’d think I’d be used to the sight by now but I catch myself from time to time. That feeling of sympathy and helplessness, the curiosity for their story, the guilt for unconsciously assuming their fault for such a dire situation; some days I feel the mix of emotions more than others. I later assure myself that we are all just victims of circumstance, and I continue my walk down Broadway, crossing over into Elmhurst.

As I cut through the cold crisp air in the middle of the night, I managed to pull my eyes from my feet and take a glance around the neighborhood I grew up in. Though I live only a train stop away now, a different and more nostalgic set of memories are displaced all across this childhood home of mine, making it unlike any other. Despite being so close to each other, Elmhurst is different than Jackson Heights in ever which way, I’ve watched it grow and change through the years, and the walk I’m on now, I’ve done a million times before.

I glance over at the latest bubble tea spot across the street from me. That specific location is perpetually changing, one store going out of business after another: a café, a deli, a dollar store, a pharmacy, and now a bubble tea spot. And right next to it, the Chinese bakery of more than 18 years remains. I was in the middle of asking myself why, when my thoughts were interrupted by an intense buzz in my pocket. I promised myself I wouldn’t spend my walk on my phone, but I couldn’t help but to answer it. A close friend calling, telling me about a piece of metal on the highway he almost drove into; the rest of his story faded as I realized how comforting having a companion could be on walks like these. I’m not always used to walking alone for the sake of walking, I’ve always spent them in good company and conversation. But I hang up the phone walk past Baxter Avenue alone once again.

With my hands stuffed in my pockets and my eyes trailing the different cars on the road, I notice a couple in a parked car having a conversation; the yellow light overhead illuminating both of their faces. I quickly look away, feeling as if I’m intruding a personal space, a personal conversation. It’s a feeling I don’t usually get in a situation I often find myself in.

I often make the drive back to Queens from Manhattan on the Ed Koch Queensboro bridge. One of my favorite things to do while I’m still on the Manhattan side is quickly peer into the different apartments of the skyscrapers neighboring the bridge. Each observation for each window lasts for only a split second, but for that split second I get a peek into someone else’s life. The life of someone I probably will never meet or get to know, a life that is spent never crossing paths with mine. Sometimes I’ll see a piece of artwork, or a TV with a football game on. I always wonder why they never close their shades. I never saw any people whenever I peeked, so I never felt that pang of guilt. Seeing the faces of the couple in the car, made awareness of the intrusion all the more real.

At Whitney Avenue, I decided to cut my trip short and head home. I hopped on the Q53 and kept my head down the rest of the way.