Lugging a grocery bag and trying to squeeze through people to hurry home, the thin Philly sidewalk just seems more narrow, more suffocating. He refuses to move, the one who walks beside me. At first I trail behind him, but not being able to withstand his snaillike pace, I hurry to surpass. Now I am stuck walking the same pace as he. We walk beside each other, not together.

It’s funny how people don’t see it – how obvious it is that I am of no relation to this man. I do not know him and he knows nothing of my existence. We are merely walking beside each other. We share the same side of the sidewalk, the same cement road and the same cloudy sky. There are so many people in the streets, but many, like me, walk alone.

Although the middle-aged man jogs closely in sync with the beauty scampering beside him, they are not traveling together. People who walk together do not just walk next to each other. They travel with each other.

Like those two over there: They do not walk next to each other or even look at each other’s faces, but they are walking together. When two people really walk with each other, it is just captivating. They become a pair of scenic walkers. Sometimes she walks behind him and sometimes, when he’s busy fixing his shoelaces or attire, she strolls ahead. But they are never too far apart. Although she would never wait for him, her speed would noticeably lessen so he would not trail behind for long. Once he catches up, they continue to speed concurrently through the scene.

They, like strangers, do not wait on each other – but together walk. And sometimes, when the small streets narrow further, they would walk simultaneously one behind the other. It is sad in a peculiar kind of way: the way they link without touching. That’s the kind of feeling walking together should convey. That is walking together.