Toronto

The City in Between"
The first snow of December always hit Toronto like a gentle ambush. One moment, the sidewalks were wet with leftover rain, the next, a soft white hush blanketed the streets.

Amira watched it fall from the steamed-up window of the café on Queen Street West, her hands wrapped around a paper cup of chai latte. She’d come here every Thursday after her shift at the bookstore, always sitting at the same corner table with a view of the streetcar stop. The red-and-white streetcars had become her unofficial clock—each one a passing marker of time she wasn’t sure she wanted to count.

Toronto was supposed to be her fresh start. She had arrived in the city nine months ago, suitcase in one hand, an acceptance letter to a graduate program in urban planning in the other. But the city had its own pace, and she often felt like she was jogging to catch up. Rent was steep, part-time work scarce, and the winter was already pressing in.

She sipped her chai, letting its heat push back against the cold creeping in through the glass. Across the street, she saw a man with a camera slung around his neck, snapping photos of the snowfall. He wasn’t aiming for the postcard-perfect CN Tower shots—he was crouching down, capturing the way snow gathered in the grooves of the streetcar tracks, the way it stuck to the graffiti-covered brick walls of the alley beside the café.

Her phone buzzed on the table. It was a message from her younger brother in Vancouver: When are you coming for the holidays?
Amira typed back: Still figuring that out. She didn’t add that she was behind on rent and that even the thought of a plane ticket made her stomach twist.

The bell above the café door jingled, and a gust of cold air swirled in. The man with the camera walked in, brushing snow from his shoulders. He ordered a black coffee and, scanning the room, spotted the empty seat across from Amira.
“Mind if I sit?” he asked.
She hesitated, then nodded.

For a few minutes, they sat in companionable silence—her reading, him reviewing photos on his camera. Eventually, curiosity nudged her. “You photograph the city often?”
“Every day,” he said, glancing up. “Toronto changes faster than you think. I’m trying to keep pieces of it before they’re gone.”

She smiled faintly. “I know the feeling.”

He leaned back. “New here?”
“Sort of. I moved in the spring. Still feels like I’m… in between belonging and visiting.”
He chuckled. “That’s Toronto for you. It’s a city that asks you to prove you’re staying before it lets you in.”

His words landed heavier than she expected. She thought of the nights she’d walked through Nathan Phillips Square alone, past the glowing Toronto sign and the skaters under fairy lights, feeling like she was pressing her face to a window she couldn’t open.

A streetcar rattled past outside, the snow blurring its edges. He turned his camera toward it, snapping without looking.
“You ever ride it all the way to the end of the line?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“You should. You see the city unravel into something else—condos to old houses, old houses to quiet streets by the lake. It reminds you there’s more than just downtown.”

They finished their drinks, and he offered a grin. “Come on, I’ll show you.”

Before she could second-guess herself, she found herself on the streetcar, the warmth of the heaters misting her glasses. The city passed in frames: Queen West’s boutiques and tattoo parlors giving way to small family bakeries, aging brick homes, parks buried in white. Passengers thinned out until only a few remained.

At Neville Park, the final stop, they stepped off into a hush broken only by the lake’s steady breath. The snow here seemed softer, the air salted with the lake’s scent. Amira felt her shoulders loosen, a space inside her open up.

“You ever feel like you’re supposed to leave but the city gives you just enough to make you stay?” he asked.
She thought of the café, the way the streetcars marked her days, the glow of the skyline at night. She thought of how lonely she’d been, but also of this unexpected detour that had led her to the water’s edge.

“Yeah,” she said softly. “I do.”

They stood in silence for a while, watching snowflakes vanish into the lake. Then they turned back toward the waiting streetcar. The ride into downtown felt slower, stretched, like the city was revealing itself in pieces just for them.

When they reached Queen Street again, she stepped off and turned to him.
“Thanks,” she said. “For showing me more than just the middle.”
He nodded. “Toronto’s better when you let it surprise you.”

As the streetcar pulled away, she realized the city didn’t feel quite so in-between anymore.