On the A train to work, I clutch my phone, waiting for the next stop so I can skip the song Spotify knows will finally make me cave and split Premium with my friend.
I stare at my shoes, gripping the overhead rail, catching a glimpse of the skyline before the train dips underground again. For a second I imagine myself as a city transplant on her first day at work.
It isn’t. It’s actually my one hundred and forty-seventh. Seven more songs until my stop.
My eyes drift closed as the dreadful sound of Meghan Trainor begins. The only thing I’m looking forward to now is the latte I’m hoping to make once I get there.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch something familiar — a wisp of red hair. I pause. She’s hard to miss the moment she steps onto the train. Bright red. The kind that makes you look twice without meaning to. The same shade I remember from her Hinge photos.
Red gingham skirt, Mary Jane pumps, silver nose hoop, snake ring, a Dream Syndicate tote bag. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear in that absent-minded way I remember from her profile, one hand gripping the overhead rail while the other steadies her bag against her hip. She stares out the window, somewhere between thinking and daydreaming.
Then her eyes meet mine — and she catches me mid-stare.
I am, apparently, a fool.
Fuck, where did she say she worked again? Tower 28? Amika? Something with design — or podcast production?
Fuck.
It was something editorial. Was that her, or another girl? Not Vogue… what was it?
Brain, please. A coherent thought would be great right now.
If it’s Vogue, she gets off at Fulton St, a couple stops before mine. Meaning I have three and a half songs to figure out what I want to do. I felt numb, my palms sweating, suddenly aware my B.O. has probably tripled.
I kept glancing up, trying not to be obvious about it. There’s something strange about recognizing someone you’ve never actually met; your brain fills in the gaps from a few photos and a short bio. Seeing her in real life made her seem more vivid: the slight crease in her brow as the train lurched forward.
I try to remember what we talked about. Something witty to start a conversation. Her foster kittens, she’s an ex-pre-med, her poison of choice is an aperol spritz, loud middle child, and has a mandala tattoo she regrets. I think we just kept missing the timing window. Every time one of us resurfaced the other was in mid-life-spiral week. a very unceremonious ending, so to speak.
The next stop is Canal Street.
Two stops left.
I don’t have my life together. Not enough savings to be a good girlfriend. Not enough stability to invite someone into my life without a disclaimer. My plants are on hospice care. I still Google things like “is aluminum microwavable?” My emergency fund is basically three paychecks and a jar of coins, my laundry situation is a diplomatic crisis between the chair, the floor, and the basket that was supposed to solve this problem. Most days it feels like I’m just improvising a life I’m not entirely sure how to hold together.
So letting this moment pass for the sake of dignity suddenly feels like a terrible investment.
This stop is Fulton Street. The next stop is-
I watch her start to leave the cart. My feet move before I can think, I rush out of the train car, nearly colliding with the morning sea of commuters, just to reach her in time.
— — — —
“I’m so sorry to bother you.” I let out an exasperated breath, my bag falling off my shoulder. “but I think we’ve spoken before.”
She pauses, one earbud halfway out.
“Oh. Wait — yeah,” she says slowly, squinting at me. “You look really familiar. Do you work around here?”
“Uh — kind of? I mean, not here here.” My brain stalls. “We matched on Hinge. A while ago. You had — uh — kittens.”
Her face lights up. “Oh my god, the foster kittens!” She laughs. “Yes. Wait. You’re — “
She says my name like she’s pulling it out of a dusty filing cabinet.
I nod, too eagerly. “Yeah. Hi.”
There’s a brief pause as the crowd moves around us.
“So this is… funny,” she says.
“Statistically improbable,” I add, immediately regretting the phrase.
She laughs again, softer this time.
“I always wondered what happened to you,” she says. “We just kind of… stopped talking.”
“Mid-life-spiral week,” I say. “On my end.”
“Oh good,” she says. “Same.”
Another pause. Not bad. Just… hovering. The train doors beep somewhere behind us. I realize this is the part where a normal person says something charming.
Instead I blurt, “Would you maybe want to get a drink sometime?”
Her eyebrows lift. She pauses for a moment.
“Yeah,” she smiles. “I’d actually like that.”
My brain short-circuits.
“Oh. Great. Cool. Awesome. Fantastic.”
I pat my pockets like a man searching for car keys he drove here with.
“Do you — uh — do you want to exchange numbers?”
She unlocks her phone and hands it to me.
I type mine in with the concentration of someone defusing a bomb.
“There,” I say, handing it back. “Now you have my number. For… logistical purposes.”
“For logistical purposes,” she repeats, still smiling.
She waves lightly as she starts walking toward the stairs.
“I’m a bit late to work. I’ll text you.”
“Okay,” I say.
“Okay.”
She disappears into the crowd.
— — — — -
I stand there for a second, feeling a flicker of pride, like I’ve just done something brave for once.
Then the train jolts.
Meghan Trainor is still playing.
I blink.
My hands are still gripping the overhead rail.
I never moved.
Across the car, she steps off at Fulton Street. She adjusts her tote bag, pulls one earbud out just long enough to check the signs, then tucks it back in and disappears into the morning crowd without ever looking in my direction.
The doors close. The train pulls away.
I stare down at my shoes. Seven songs left until my stop.
Somewhere between Canal and Fulton, I imagined an entire conversation — a small cinematic victory. I imagined a version of myself that could step off the train and into her life.
But that version of me stayed in my head.
I never got off.
And the city moved on without me.