Where do we belong when our third spaces disappear

featured in The Open Letters | by

From Ruby Peake💌

There used to be a little public library near the park in Mexico City that I would pass on my walks. I never went inside. But I loved seeing who did. Children spilling out with books tucked under their arms. Older people sitting by the windows, their reading glasses catching the light. Teenagers gathered on the steps, pretending not to care but staying there anyway.

The building is empty now. The shutters are down, the sign has faded, and the small stream of people who once drifted in and out has disappeared. I didn’t realize how much I’d miss a place I never entered.

Term third spaces refers to the essential in-between sanctuaries where we can exist without obligation. Parks, bars, bookstores, cafés. The benches and plazas where life breathes. In Mexico City, these spaces have always felt abundant: the late-night taco stand, the zócalo at dusk, a shaded corner in Chapultepec. But even here, capitalism leaves its fingerprints. Rents climb, chains replace the quirky spots, and slowly the spaces that invited lingering without pressure begin to vanish.

A couple dancing in the Park on a Sunday afternoon

Capitalism doesn’t really know what to do with “lingering.” It wants transactions. It wants us to consume quickly and move on. When gathering becomes commodified, even the places that should feel communal — cafés, coworking spaces, gyms — start to carry invisible price tags. You’re welcome to stay, as long as you keep buying.

And yet, something in us longs for more. Humans are wired to brush shoulders with strangers, to witness and be witnessed in small ways. To overhear a fragment of conversation that lingers longer than a tweet. To be in a place where you don’t have to perform, but you still belong.

I think about this whenever I rewatch Before Sunrise. So much of that film depends on spaces we rarely inhabit anymore: a late-night record store, a quiet park, a café where two young people can sit for hours with no agenda.

Before Sunrise (Richard Linklater, 1995) is a quiet, wandering love story about two strangers who meet on a train and spend a single night exploring Vienna, talking and connecting in ways that only fleeting moment allow.

The whole story is a love letter to third spaces — the way they let us drift into connection, into meaning, into surprise. Without those spaces, Jesse and Céline wouldn’t have found each other. They fall in love because they have a city full of places to wander, linger, and talk. If they’d met today? Maybe they’d have matched on an app, grabbed one overpriced cocktail, and never seen each other again.

That’s why the library’s absence stings, even though I never crossed its doors. It wasn’t just a building. It was the possibility it held — the possibility of children discovering new worlds, of older people still seeking wonder, of me maybe one day stepping inside.

So I wonder: where are your third spaces now? Do you still have a place where you can linger without expectation? Or are you, like me, piecing them together — in small parks, in bookstores that still welcome wandering, in fleeting conversations on the street?

Perhaps this letter can be its own kind of third space. A quiet bench made of words, where we can pause together for a moment, before the day pulls us back into its currents.

Lots of love,

Ruby xx 💌🦋🐞

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About the Author:

Ruby Peake is currently studying abroad in Mexico, navigating a season of change and transition. Much of her writing is shaped by the experience of being between places, languages, and versions of herself. She is especially drawn to exploring themes of memory, how culture influences our sense of belonging, and the ways in which we gather in both physical and emotional spaces. Ruby is just beginning to publish her reflections more intentionally, with this piece marking an important step in her unfolding journey.

Substack ID: Ruby Peake

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