in between floors 10 and 19. the two-way street of kindness | by Julia Garicochea | Jul, 2025

There’s something strange — almost magical — about chance encounters in enclosed spaces.

As if the forced proximity makes us vulnerable, squeezing out the very best — or worst — we carry.

You see that happen in elevators.

You’ve been there. Rain pelting your leather jacket, soaked to the bone, bladder full — just in time to watch your neighbor speed into the elevator and slam the close door button.

Right on your nose.

What an ass.

But then again, maybe they had to pee too.

That’s the thing about elevators. They hold more than floors — they hold tiny acts of humanity.

I stepped into the elevator with a frown that might have broken the mirror. It had been one of those weeks — warm, sticky, unproductive. I hadn’t written a word for myself in days.

I felt stuck, frustrated.

I barely noticed it when the elevator stopped and a woman pulled the door open with some difficulty.

My building’s a 70s gem with two creaky elevators, with the original wooden doors and all — the kind you have to pull open. It’s all charm, with an element of fear.

Well, the woman did just that — pulled the door open — but didn’t step in. Instead, she scanned me with beady eyes.

I shuffled in place, growing impatient. Could she stop holding the elevator?

“Dear, would you mind terribly if I asked you a favor?” she was clearly in no rush.

I repressed a sigh, then met her eyes. Dark, round, sagged. She must’ve been in her sixties.

I was in no mood for charity. I just wanted to get home — five more floors, and I’d be there.

But in moments like this — pressed between those four walls, held by the woman’s gaze — I realized I’m just not the kind of person who says no.

So I forced the frown to fade. I plastered a smile on my face. And I stepped out of the elevator.

“Of course. How can I help?”

She needed an extra pair of hands to carry a few boxes downstairs.

Turned out not to be that hard of a job — it barely took ten minutes of my time.

But somewhere between those floors, almost by accident… We talked.

She asked me what I did for a living.

I told her I was a writer.

And then — I don’t know why — I let it spill. The doubts, the fatigue, the fear I was wasting my voice. Maybe gravity made me giddy. Maybe it was the intimacy of the shared space. Maybe I just needed to freaking exhale.

I regretted it a second after.

But she just looked at me and smiled.

“I was a journalist for 40 years,” she said.

“I’m retired now, but I have friends — published authors. I can put you in touch.”

My eyes widened.

“That… would be amazing.”

“It’ll be my pleasure, dear.”

That’s the gift of in-between spaces.

Elevators. Street corners. Park benches.

The liminal places where all sense of direction shifts. Where you’re briefly no one, going nowhere — and so, unexpectedly, you are yourself.

Faced with the two-way street of your decisions.

Because in the end, we get what we give. Not as a transaction, but as a law of nature.

Sometimes you might just turn the right corner, take the right elevator ride, help someone who can help you find yourself.

The universe cracks open in quiet corners. Like in the creaks of an elevator, in between floors 10 and 19.

All it takes is one small yes to shift the story.