The Silence of an Invisible City
In the heart of the city, where tourists and locals crossed paths effortlessly, he stood. A young man in an olive-green outfit, his posture slightly hunched, lost in the world of his phone. Behind him, a glass facade glistened, filled with bookshelves adorned with colorful covers. The books seemed to say nothing to him, trapped behind glass, unreachable to his current focus. His bag hung casually over his shoulder, likely filled with nothing remarkable, yet burdened with an untold journey. A few meters away stood a woman, her blue jacket tightly wrapped around her, her gaze similarly fixed downward at another small screen. Despite their shared silence in the physical world, they seemed to inhabit parallel universes.
The man, let’s call him Erik, was unaware of his surroundings. His fingers moved quickly across the screen, scrolling through messages and pictures, his eyes barely skimming the words. He had convinced himself he needed to “stay connected,” but the truth was that he was trying to ease a sense of discomfort. Loneliness was no stranger to Erik. In a city full of people, he often felt as though he stood on an island. His phone was his bridge, no matter how precarious.
The woman, whom we might name Anna, wasn’t there by chance. She was waiting—maybe for someone, maybe for a sign. Her bag was filled with a few newly purchased books, but she hadn’t really looked at them yet. Her fingers moved less quickly than Erik’s, as if she was trying to force herself not to pay too much attention to her screen, but she couldn’t fully escape. Occasionally, she glanced up at the reflection in the glass, her own face caught between the book covers and the movements of people behind her. She wondered if anyone saw her and, perhaps more importantly, if she wanted to be seen.
It was a typical afternoon in Amsterdam. The rush of bicycles whizzing by, the soft chime of bells, and the murmur of conversations formed a background melody that neither of them noticed. Passersby moved past them as if they were invisible, caught up in their own rhythm, their own little stories.
Erik had been standing in the same spot for ten minutes, unaware of how his time was being consumed. His phone vibrated; a new notification appeared, but the joy that used to come with the anticipation of connection felt flat. He opened the notification anyway, more out of habit than curiosity. It was a message from a friend he had barely spoken to since university. “How are you?” it read, and Erik stared at the words as if they were written in another language. What was it about this simple question that felt so confronting? He had to reply “good.” That’s what people wanted to hear, right?
On the other side of the glass, other stories were unfolding. Inside the store, children flipped through picture books, an older man ran his fingers along the spines of historical works, and a young woman sat on a bright green chair, engrossed in a novel as if the outside world didn’t exist. These small moments of calm and stillness in daily life went unnoticed by Erik or Anna, but their energy was palpable—a subtle counterpoint to the digital unrest that trapped them both.
Anna sighed softly, her breath visible on the glass. Her thoughts drifted to the book she had just bought, a novel she hoped would inspire her. But now, as she waited, she felt only a kind of inner restlessness. She looked at Erik again, not consciously directing her gaze but instinctively drawn to his presence. His profile against the glass facade seemed almost like a quiet protest against the speed of the city. Something about him felt familiar, even though she was certain they had never met.
Suddenly, Erik snapped out of his digital trance. He felt it—that strange prickle of being watched, as though an invisible thread had tapped him. He looked up, his eyes meeting hers for just a second before she looked away, as if caught in the act. But that second was enough to pull him out of his own head. He felt his feet on the ground, the weight of his bag, the sounds around him that suddenly came flooding back.
Anna felt her cheeks flush. What was it about her that always seemed to land her in these awkward situations? She briefly considered just walking away, but her curiosity won out. What would happen if she started a conversation? But how do you begin talking to someone who seems so deeply entrenched in their own world?
Erik took a deep breath. Maybe this was his chance. Maybe he just needed to say something. He looked at her, his gaze less fleeting now. “Are you waiting for someone?” he asked, his voice soft but clear enough to rise above the city’s murmur.
Anna looked up, her eyes wide with surprise. She smiled nervously and nodded. “Yes, a friend,” she said. But as the words left her mouth, she wondered if that was really true. Was she waiting for a friend, or just for a sign of connection?
The silence that followed was short but full of meaning. Both smiled cautiously, as if they knew this moment was special, even if they didn’t yet understand why. The city around them seemed to blur; the passersby became shadows, the sounds quieter. It was as if time had paused.
“Nice bookstore in there,” Erik eventually said, nodding toward the glass facade. His attempt to break the silence was awkward but sincere. Anna chuckled softly. “Yeah, they’ve got a bit of everything. I just found something I’d been looking for.” She pulled one of the books from her bag and showed it to him. A novel with a colorful cover that Erik didn’t recognize, but something in her expression told him it meant something to her.
They began to talk, cautiously at first, tentatively, but soon the conversation flowed naturally. About books, about the city, about how it felt to sometimes be so lost in a world full of people. It was as if the glass facade was not just a reflection of the outside world but a portal that brought them closer together.
After a while, Anna’s friend arrived, a cheerful young woman with a wide smile who looked at them curiously. Erik smiled back and decided it was time to move on. But as he said goodbye, he felt something new. The sense that he was no longer just a spectator in the city but a participant, however small.
Anna watched him as he walked away, his silhouette fading into the crowd. Maybe she would never see him again, or maybe this was the beginning of something unexpected. Whatever it was, it left a small glow behind, a reminder that even in a world obsessed with connection through screens, the real moments still happen from one human to another.
Share this post