The following is a snippet of my ongoing novela project (4 years in the making). I offer up some context:

It’s been an interesting night on Train 14. My photography project, where I’ve been asking to take pictures of strangers and in turn for them to take a picture of me, has led to some unexpected interactions. From Iliya offering me shrooms, to Bon showing me her healing surgery wound and telling me she hates the marshland, people have been surprisingly willing to open up. My consumption of various alcohols and microwave meals hasn’t helped the absurdness of it all. 




Ten-Minute Friends

I’m back in my seat now, writing notes vigorously. My handwriting suffering from the drinks and flurry of thoughts spilling quickly out from my pen to the paper. 

What a strange series of events, I think, as I scribble with fury, turning the pages in my pocket sized notebook over and over and over again, hoping there will be enough to contain my thoughts. 

The train car attendant hasn’t been around much, but he’s here now, asking if anybody needs anything and collecting the overflowing trash bags from their receptacles. 

As he makes his way to the comically narrow winding stairs, he strikes up a conversation with a man sitting a couple rows behind me. They’re talking about a college basketball game. I don’t really have a lot of interest in their conversation until they bring up the University of Arizona. 

Don’t do it, I tell myself. This is not your conversation. 

I continue to listen attentively, hovering my pen a centimeter away from dwindling pages, still ready to strike my thoughts as soon as the conversation flows away to a place I don’t care to follow. I feel statuesque, my ear tingling for information, and then they start talking about DeAndre Ayton. I sigh. 

“I go there!” I say as I turn to face the two men. 

You had to do it. 

“Oh, really? My cousin used to go there,” says the train car attendant. “She really loved it there.” 

“Yeah,” I say. “It’s a super beautiful campus.” I look between the two men, who are both now looking at me. “Anyways, I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to interrupt your conversation.” 

“No, that’s okay,” The passenger says. “I want to finish up this chapter of the book I’m reading.” He motions to the paperback in his hands, he too was held in a statuesque form while chatting with the attendant. 

The attendant gets the hint, and takes a few steps towards me, now leaning against the wall across from my seat. “Did I hear earlier that you were doing a project of sorts for your major?” he asks me.

I can tell this guy is looking for some conversation by how quickly he piggybacks on my interjection. Once he found out the man had chosen the book over a chat, I became his next person of interest. I contemplated my answer while wondering how long he goes without conversation as a train car attendant, I figure it’s probably not long. He has short black hair and rectangular glasses on his face, like most other people here he’s wearing a mask, so his eyes act as the only window into him. His dark features lead me to assume he has some latin heritage, but I could be wrong. 

Just as the worker I had seen earlier who had been hunched over papers in the lounge, this attendant sports a light blue Amtrak shirt and dark navy pants. An electric blue tie finishes the outfit along with a large Amtrak train belt buckle. 

I can just make out his name on the badge hanging from his lanyard, Justin. “Yeah, I am,” I reply, and go on to describe the project. 

“Can I be a part of it?” he asks. 

“Of course!” I say. I’m surprised. Nobody else had jumped at the opportunity quite like he had. I’m struck by his willingness to trust people and think the best; my polar opposite. 

Just as I did with the other participants before him, we exchange pictures. “I think this is a super cool project by the way,” he says as he hands over the camera. “Thanks,” I say. “What was your name?” 

“Oh, I’m Justin.” 

“Nice to meet you,” I say as I let my eyes crinkle with a seeming smile. “Have you been working for Amtrak long?” 

“I worked maintenance on these trains for four years, and now it’s my second year working onboard.” He’s beaming, I can see the pride in his face and it makes me happy, and jealous. “I really love it. And for this ride in particular, it’s one of those rare times where we, the crew I mean, get to spend some time in one of the cities.” 

“Oh, sweet, where will you all get to stay?” 

“We’re staying for a night in Seattle, and we won’t be arriving too late either. So, me and a few of the other workers are going to rent a car and make a half day out of it. Be tourists for once, maybe see the needle!” 

I let out a little smile, to assure him that I really am happy. “That’s cool that the job offers some of that liberty.” 

“Trust me,” he says. “This isn’t normal. Usually we arrive somewhere around 8pm, have an hour or so to check into the hotel they have us booked in, and then we have to clock in to our next ride at 6am the following morning.”

“Gotcha, well I’m excited for you, seems like tomorrow will be a treat.” 

“Thanks! I’m excited too, we have a lot of plans and things we want to see,” a smile creeps into his eyes, “Just… yeah, I’m just really excited.” 

I smile with my eyes too, “well it was great meeting you,” he says. 

“You too!” I say, as he walks downstairs, full trash bag in hand. 


He disappears from sight and I sit contemplating my existence. I absolutely take my life for granted. I feel I often become unsatisfied with my life, and all the while I know it’s possible to be fulfilled in nearly anything you do. It just has to do with your perspective. 

Why can’t I just flip a switch in my brain and be fully content with my lot? Sometimes I feel like I have to be a successful author or artist by the time I’m 22 just so I don’t consider myself a failure, but I also know that thinking is exactly what could make me fail. 


“So, you’re doing a project with photography?” A voice from behind utters, snapping me back to reality. It’s obvious the question is directed at me. 

You know how there’s some people in life that you just click with? There’s this immediate sort of bond and you trust them fully, even if it’s in your nature to be skittish or paranoid? I didn’t know it yet, but Tobias would be that person for me. 

“Yeah,” I say, as I turn around to face the voice. 

I put my notebook down, releasing my form and submitting to the knowledge that I’d have to continue the mad journaling later in the night. I swivel in my seat and prop my knees on the bottom cushions, letting my belly rest on the back of them and propping my arms up at the very top, I’m holding my head with my knuckles. The man is sitting a couple of rows behind me and I can barely see his eyes over the seats, he’s stretching his neck to catch my eye. 

“Did you want to be a part of the project?”, I ask after adjusting myself to my new position. “No thanks,” he says. “I don’t really feel comfortable having my picture taken by a stranger.” 

“No big deal,” I say. I’m about to turn back around, when I see him adjusting, he raises himself to face me above the seats. 

He has kind eyes and I can tell his short curly dark hair is slowly receding. He has a bigger build and looks to be in his early forties from what I can tell. It’s funny, it almost feels like we’ve entered our own little world. Our heads are about two feet above everybody else and we’re facing each other, somehow defying unspoken rules of train standards. It feels so nice.

I can tell this man is normal… okay, actually, I can tell this man is on my wavelength, which is my normal, and it makes me comfortable. 

“But I do find it very interesting,” he continues the conversation as he crosses his arms across the seats in front of him, mirroring my position. “What made you want to do this?” 

“I find people interesting. And it’s funny how many people will tell you… how much they’re willing to divulge to a total stranger,” I say. 

I know my response doesn’t fully answer his question. 

“I wanted to see…” I continued. “Well it’s a project for a class, but I was very interested to see how many complete strangers would lend themselves to my art, just because we’re here, sharing this seemingly eternal moment on this train. 

“It’s like the 10-minute friends,” he says. 

“10-minute friends?” I ask. 

“Have you seen the movie Fight Club?” 

“Oh, I love that movie,” I say. “Did you know that throughout the movie, Brad Pitt’s image is spliced in different scenes before his character is even introduced into the plot? Like every now and again, for a microsecond, his character appears as a mirage of sorts.” 

“Really?” he asks. “I had never realized that.” 

“Yeah, I didn’t the first time I watched it either, but the second time, man I couldn’t escape it. But sorry I interrupted your thought, what were you saying? About the 10-minute friends?” 

“Right, yeah. Well, when Brad Pitt’s character is first introduced in the plane, he talks to Ed Norton about the exact thing you’re telling me,” he says. “The person sitting next to you on the plane can become a 10-minute friend. Maybe they even become your best friend. The point is, there’s this weird bond that forms between the two of you. Total strangers, then best friends, then you never speak to or hear from them again in your life.” 

I let that sink in. 

“This whole night has been a meeting of 10-minute friends,” I say. 

He smiles. 

Then his face changes a bit. “Did you know that lady in the cafe car?” 

He’s referencing Bon. “The purple-haired one?” I ask. “No, I didn’t. She waved me over and was a good subject for my project, but after a while she just gave me some weird vibes.”

“Yeah, she gave me weird vibes too. Those types of people can be dangerous,” He says, his voice more serious now, and I know he’s right. “I saw you in there when I went down for a drink and I also felt something was off.” 

“Yeah, I know they are,” I say, and I feel a lump in my throat as I swallow my accumulated saliva. “She asked where I was sitting and just kept asking me weird questions, I never answered them, at least not truthfully. But still… I don’t know, I still feel weird about it.” 

“I have feelings about people, intuitions,” he says. “I’m usually never wrong. I saw you talking to her in the cafe car, and got that uneasy feeling with her, like she was up to no good.” 

“I get those feelings too. I’m not often wrong either,” I say. “She was also an anti-masker and that should have been a dead give away,” I say, chuckling as I try to dissolve the growing lump in my throat and pit in my stomach. 

“God,” he lets out a slight chuckle too. “I’m sure she was against BLM too, right?” he asks. 

“Oh, we didn’t get into that, but I wouldn’t be surprised,” I reply. “You know…I mean, I’ve gone to a few rallies and protests and it’s getting kind of dangerous just being there to support the cause. It’s like, there’s so much backlash to people just wanting to live peaceful lives and have equal rights.” 

“Oh, seriously, I just don’t get it,” he says. “Like, their rights are going to take away from your white rights? I don’t think so.” 

“I mean, just because we’re fighting for something you don’t agree with, it doesn’t mean we’re fighting against you,” I say. 

“People are always threatened by things they don’t understand,” he says. “Like COVID, people are fighting it because they don’t understand it, that’s what I think anyways.” 

“But they can’t just look around at the massive amount of chaos and havoc it’s caused?” I ask rhetorically. “I mean, not just the lives lost, but the lives ruined, loved ones gone, employers firing people left and right.” 

“My partner and I almost went into homelessness because of COVID, because my job furloughed me and we couldn’t pay rent.” 

I look at him in disbelief. “I’m so sorry.” 

“I mean, it’s okay. Thank god that didn’t happen,” he says. “I just got a new job three weeks ago, but we were that close, we had our things packed and had a plan to live out of our car. It can happen to anybody.” 

“Yeah, absolutely,” I say, and a few seconds go by as I stare into his eyes. The silence makes me uncomfortable. “Well congrats on the new position,” I say. “Honestly, I’m really happy for you.”

“Yeah, me too,” he says. “It was bad for a bit there, but that’s why I’m traveling now, just to secure everything for the job up in Portland.” 

I nod, “It really can happen to anybody. There’s so many people who have been forced into homelessness, and once somebody is homeless it’s so hard to get out. It can be difficult to find the help you need. Not to mention the majority of people treat you as if you’re invisible.” 

“I think that’s a real fear, and once you get to that point, it’s easier to sink even lower,” he says. “I was at a really low point, a point where it felt like there could have been no return.” 

“I’m glad you found something,” I say, not knowing how to add more or continue the conversation. 

There’s a pause, and we just look at eachother. 

A sort of understanding occurs and the moment passes. 

“Do you want another subject for your project? He asks. 

“Are you sure? I thought you didn’t want a stranger to have your picture,” I reply. “Did I say that?”, he asks. “Well, you’re not a stranger. You’re a 10-minute friend.” 

I laugh, “well then I would love for you to be a part of my project.” 

“My name’s Tobias, by the way.” 

“I’m Sof.” 

And for the last time tonight, I warn my subject about the intensity of the flash, line up my shot, and snap a picture of my friend, Tobias. 

He smiles at me with his eyes. 

I give him the camera and tell him where the shutter button is, I settle my body deeper into my crossed arms and he takes the picture and hands me back the camera. 

“Do you have other film cameras?” He asks. 

“Yeah, I do, I have a canon FTb and I sometimes use my boyfriend’s Hasselblad.” 

“You know, the Hasselblad was the first camera on the moon,” he says. “That was the camera that took pictures of the moon landing.” 

“I had no idea,” I say, and I shut the shutter on the camera. 

“Well, it was really nice to meet you,” he says.”

“It was nice to meet you too.” 

And we both retreat to the land below, the land where the heads are two feet lower than where they were before and I smile. 

I’m debating going out for the next smoke break to try my luck with the smokers for my project, and to stretch my legs. 

When the next stop comes, right before I begin getting up to leave, I catch a glimpse of Bon taking a smoke. I had gotten that weird feeling from her right around the time she said something about me and her getting off together at one of the stops and ‘having so much fun’. It was shortly after that, that I excused myself, told her and Iliya it was nice to meet them, and drunkenly sped back to my seat. 

Seeing her through the window, made that pit that began to form in my stomach when I was talking to Tobias grow bigger. She looks upset. I nestle back into my seat and peer at her from my window, then she locks eyes with me for a second. I look away, my heart racing, then I look back to see her talking with another smoker. A man I haven't seen in the car before. He has a dark complexion and is wearing a black hoodie and dark blue jeans. 

They chat for a little bit, and eventually the fellow smoker of hers, probably in his late 30s, looks up and makes eye contact with me. My feeling of uneasiness multiplies. 

I decide it’s better if I stay in the car for the remainder of the break, and reach into my bag to grab my book. 

A few minutes go by, then the passengers start making their way back on board the train. I take a sigh and watch as Bon and the man board. Bon goes to a car further to the front, but the man makes his way to the door leading to the last car, my car in Train 14. 

Why is he coming this way? I take a deep breath and think things through as I shrink further into my seat, hoping it will eat me whole. 

I hear steps coming up the stairs to the second level and it’s him, the man. I can’t help but stare at him as he walks down the hall, making eye contact with me halfway, and exits through the doors at the end of the car to the economy seats up ahead. 

This isn’t his car. 

He’s not supposed to be here, what is the point of him coming up to this car? To my car? To look at me? 

My heart starts pounding faster. 

I think she slipped something in my drink. That stupid little bottle of wine I left unattended with her when I went down for my Jack and Coke. I sigh and think… how many drinks have I had of that bottle since I came back, two… maybe three.

Was this all some elaborate plan to get me? To do something to me? Was this man in on it from the start? 

My head is racing, all the investigative and serial murderer shows I’ve seen come flooding to my head and all I can think is to stay calm, to breathe. 

I feel my throat closing up, the air, the oxygen in the car seems thinner. Am I dying?
Breathe, I tell myself. Breathe, and I force myself to keep my heart rate from skyrocketing. 

But why does it feel like my throat is closing up? I take my phone and look up ‘why.does it feel like my throatisclosing up’ Google doesn't care about my lack of spacing. There are a lot of answers, one of them is severe anxiety; a panic attack. 

Breathe. 



I sit for a few more seconds, moments. 

The train hasn’t departed yet, and I decide I don’t want to take any chances. I already know that Bon is a sketchy character, I have good judgment for those things. Now I have my proof. The shifty eyes, sending this man up to spy on me, to see where I was sitting, scope it out… Stalking me on the train, wanting to know where I was and now sending people to come find me. He probably saw where I was getting off, the little paper over my head labeled FAR, signaling Fairfield was my station. Fuck.

Fuck. 

I get up, trying my best not to look too bewildered and cause a scene. Tobais looks at me and I force my face to relax and smile at him. He smiles back. I go across the hall and make my way gradually down the spiral staircase and to the first floor. 

I find an open bathroom, go inside, turn around, lock the door behind me, and turn back to the toilet, letting my knees fall to the ground. 

I catch my breath. 

I’ve never made myself throw up before, not even to get out of going to school, but right now, in my eyes, this is potentially life or death. 

I take a deep breath, let it out and push my index and middle fingers down my throat, as far as they could go. I gag, but nothing comes up. I sit back on my heels and let the fluorescent lights wash over me and my watering eyes. 

I try again, and after the third time, my insides come loose. I feel my microwave macaroni dinner comes up with the multiple drinks I’ve downed during the ride. I see it all swimming before me, smiling up at me in the low water. I spit out some remaining saliva and clutch myself.

I sit back on my calves and take another breath. 

Has someone heard me? Was she there, just outside the doors, waiting for me? 


I take a moment and then slowly get up. I look at myself in the mirror, holding my body up with my hands stabilized on either side of the sink, trembling. 

I run the water and clean myself off, then hold my breath as I open the door and peak out into the hall. There’s no one there. I let the breath out. 

I head back upstairs and find my seat. I’m still shaking, and now my throat hurts like hell, I’m assuming from the forceful puking. 

I try to stay calm, just focusing on letting air slowly in and out of my body. Just a few more stops to Fairfield, almost to safety and a friend I’ve known not ten minutes, but all of my life.