Picture this, you’re walking the streets around the house you grew up in, on a particularly gloomy day (that was sunny just a few minutes ago) – but you don’t have the space to think about the weather, because you’re watching the old grandpa walking with his cane, opposite of the direction you’re walking in, he walks right past you and you get a whiff of his cologne – definitely not Dior Sauvage – It smells like your grandpa’s cologne, the one you love. Your mind wanders for a bit.
You’ve stopped walking now and you keep looking up at the sky, then back at the people walking, then at your hands for some reason, With only one thought; does his granddaughter love his cologne as well?
Your mind wanders; does he have one? Is he walking alone because his wife died? Was he ever even married?
You find yourself deep in thought about how this man has lived a whole life, years and decades before you were even here, and now he’s carrying all these years quietly; baggage and all, when you still haven’t processed a single year since you’ve hit puberty. Is he happy?
That 20-something guy crossing the street right in front of you sure looks happy, but he could be pretending for the girl walking alongside him – is that his girlfriend or a coworker? is HE happy?!
You shake your head and keep walking. But now you’re looking at everyone. Really looking. That girl adjusting her scarf in the car window reflection – is she going somewhere important or just trying to feel better today? That boy with his headphones in, eyes glued to the pavement; what’s he listening to? Is it music or a voice note he keeps replaying? Is it someone he lost?
And now you’re spiraling, but not in a bad way. In a beautiful way. You realize that these people don’t exist as background characters in your story. They’re not here for you, they’re not extras, they’re the leads in their own lives, with stories you’ll never hear, heartbreaks you’ll never witness, jokes you’ll never laugh at, and meals you’ll never share.
It’s overwhelming. And it’s humbling.
It’s a little sad, too. Because you want to know. You want to tap someone on the shoulder and say, tell me what’s been going on in your life. You want to sit at a stranger’s kitchen table and listen to them talk about someone they loved, or how they make their tea just right, or why they always wear blue on Wednesdays.
You won’t, though. You never will. That’s the strange, aching beauty of it.
And that feeling; that moment where the world opens up and you realize just how many stories you’re not part of, it has a name.
It’s called sonder.
It’s when you feel small, but not in a way that hurts. In a way that softens you.
It’s when Cairo, this city you thought you knew, suddenly becomes a kaleidoscope. You start seeing people in fragments, but the fragments feel like whole lives.
The woman in the abaya standing at the fruit cart with a frown that feels heavier than the plastic bag in her hand. The taxi driver blinking too much. The kid alone on the swing. You can’t help but wonder, what chapter are they in? What are they carrying?
You keep walking, a breeze hits. The sun’s trying to come back.
And maybe sonder is just that. A kind of closeness that exists without touch. A moment where your heart makes room for lives that don’t include you.
And for a second, that’s enough. That knowing is enough.
