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It starts like this, in a rush of color and motion.
Life seems to pass by me like a train on high speed as I stand back, way behind the yellow line, ignoring the world, shrugging off the human condition, and rejecting anything that threatened to have meaning or relevance. As far as I’m concerned, the one thing I am good at is being stuck. That really doesn’t bother me. The world is always moving too fast for me to follow anyway. I never really notice, until of course I do. Whether it’s members of my high school class getting married and having children, or taking on heavyweight promotions and having a career. Everyone else has moved on with their lives, doing this, doing that, becoming the things they said they would, or sometimes something else entirely. But at least they were moving .
As for me, this is my first stop. This is where I get on.
The morning train is packed, naturally, with an assortment of students of all ages and the faceless drones of commerce and industry. All of them in a hurry to get from Point A to Point B. All of them held hostage by the idea that you have to get good grades, get into a good school, get a stable job, get an x figure salary. Get this. Get that. All of them stuck with the notion that there exists a set trajectory in life, and if you didn’t tick off the boxes on the checklist fast enough, all the good lives would run out and you’ll be left with the scraps to choose from.
And then there’s me, still waiting for a breakthrough.
My daily commute is an hour-long train ride. I spend that time well pondering about things like Will my life remain a career of constant rejection and poverty? and hard-hitting contemporary issues like Maybe today I’ll try that Earl Grey and orange gelato from the stall across the station. I also like to sit next to the door and, earbuds on, live-blog made-up stories about the parade of people that dumped into the train car. This isn’t gripping prose or beautiful poetry. All I had are words put into silly thoughts and ideas, vague wonderings that will never make it to conversation. Words for people I will never intend to talk to; faces that I will never see again. I like the idea that each of them have lives as equally messed up as mine. It gives me both a sense of comfort and normalcy.
Dangerously hipster looking dude with lip piercing and a tattoo just about peeking through his sleeve. Is actually a cat-lover and volunteers his time in developing countries building houses and teaching children how to read and write. All he wants is to find someone to love.
School girl who is obviously crushing on her friend but has no intention of ever telling him because she knows her feelings are one-sided. All she wants is to feel like the lead girl in a drama. Feel...special. Well, here’s a spoiler alert for you Girl, no one’s special.
Middle-aged Office Worker. Probably a father of three spoiled kids. Underappreciated. Is probably texting his wife, but she’s too tired of managing a household when she’d rather be watching her noontime dramas, she responds with nagging instead. So he texts his co-worker. Young and pretty. It’s not cheating if he’s talking about work. He’s justified, he thinks. Of course, he is.
That’s when I see you.
Tall, tan, solid; you demanded attention, but not intentionally, not consciously. On your back and on each shoulder, are two guitar cases. Your black hoodie hangs comfortably over your chest and broad shoulders. One of your hands releases its tight hold on the strap of your guitar case and you run your fingers through your dark floppy hair. For a moment, I’m caught in your big bright eyes, and your wide easy smile.
You’re beautiful, and I remain still. Transfixed. For a split-second, your eyes cross the crowded car and lock with mine. You have the warmest eyes, like milk chocolate with flecks of light like marshmallows. They stared right into me, incandescent and alit with energy. It feels like a sugar rush, everything all at once. But it’s over as soon as the train stutters into motion and, just like that, I lose you in the sea of people.
It’s nothing. Of course, it’s nothing. Just one of those inexplicable moments of eye contact that I will immediately overanalyze and inevitably misread.
For the next hour, I watch as hordes of people race against the clock to get to wherever and whatever is so important. I wonder if they like what they do. If they only pretend to like what they do. I wonder what you do. I wonder if you enjoy what you do.
Story of my life. I couldn’t get you off my mind, and you probably won’t even remember me standing there.
***
The next time I see you is almost a month later and all the leaves have changed color, the nights are getting longer, and there’s a crisp chill in the air. I’m sitting at my usual spot, typing an extra long entry about the elderly couple across me when I hear boisterous laughter from across the subway car. I look up, and that’s when I see you with your group of friends.
You laugh as you explain something with your hands, and I wonder if it sounds as dazzling (or as distracting) as it looks. If it sounds like water trickling from a brook or like fire crackling from the hearth. Either way, I just want to hear more of it. Then I wonder what makes you laugh— if you’re the type to laugh at everything or just a few things, or even at nothing.
You’re wearing this black padded coat, and I can’t help but think how warm and cozy it must be were I to join you inside that coat, and—
Oh my god, I’m actually thinking about sharing the inside of your coat?
Your group bursts out in laughter again, and I still can’t isolate which one is the sound of your voice. One of your friends, the blonde one wearing these large rectangular glasses, repeatedly slaps you grey-haired friend on the arm, and your smile grows even bigger.
I think your hair is a different color too, a little lighter, and your bangs are a little too long they tickle the edges of your eyes. I wonder about what else has changed, and what could have inspired these changes. Because I’m still sitting here in this train car feeling the same way I had been on the first day of class. Dazed, confused, and with no idea where to go from here.
You look up, just beyond your friends, and this is when I realize I’ve been staring at you for too long. Feeling guilty over getting caught, I, very casually as if it were my intention all along, avert my gaze towards the wall behind your head. There are a lot of interesting things to look at: advertisements for hair regrowth and mobile phone deals; the latest album from that rock band I like; a movie poster for a romantic comedy I would consider watching alone to escape the judgment of my so-called friends. I keep you in my periphery, but only just.
You’re still looking at my general direction and I don’t know if you’re trying to ambush me for looking at you or if you’re interested in changing your mobile plans or thinking about watching a movie later tonight.
After what seems like an eternity, you turn back to your friends, and laugh at a joke— but I don’t think you really heard it because your smile doesn’t go all the way to your eyes like it did just a while back. But how would I know? We’ve never even met.
After my stop, and as I walk to my part time-job at the tea shop, all I think about is the number of ways the situation could have turned out had I not looked away. I will end up thinking about this situation often, and asking myself what if . What a pair of words those are. What. If. Two words, innocuous in and of themselves but together, side by, side have the power to haunt you for the rest of your life.
***
I watch you fall in love at first sight a couple of weeks later.
It’s just you and me standing in the middle of the train this morning. That is, of course, if we discount the weekend crowd between us. Because as far as I’m concerned, they don’t exist. Except when this transient mass of people swarm into and through me as if I were a ghost with the inconvenience of flesh and bones getting in their way from here to there. But at least I manage to hold on to my spot where I can watch you, in a non-threatening, non-violent, and non-invasive way in peace.
You had your guitar with you, and that’s when I notice the assembly of plushie keychains that guard your baby. They’re swaying with the forward motion of the train like a metronome in perpetual motion. While you’re busy talking on your phone, I test my ninja skills and attempt to snap a photo of your keychains. And maybe of you. But the three high school girls standing behind me, arms looped around each other’s and laughing behind manicured fingers, are shooting dirty looks my way. I’m currently in a losing debate on whether or not I should abort mission and try again another day. Furthermore, shame makes an introduction, and I slip my phone back inside my pocket.
My only consolation is that I can return the gesture by scowling at them and teaching them a lesson or two about respecting their elders. Or at least about leaving random strangers alone so that they may go about their personal business without being unfairly judged. What is it about kids these days? Can’t mind their own personal space, always having to make a big deal about someone else’s.
But just as I think that, a new scenario blossoms so beautifully in my mind I instantly forget about my current source of ire. It’s perfect. In movies and in books, the first step is always a Meet Cute. You know, when the main character and her love interest meet for the first time in an adorably awkward chance encounter that totally and conveniently sets up their burgeoning romance? That’s what I’m talking about. I pull out my phone again and draft a new blog post.
That’s when the train jerks in transit. A sudden stop and go that throws me off my balance. I’m not the only one that falls victim to Sir Newton’s Second Law of Motion. As soon as I look up, I feel the insides of my chest swell before imploding upon itself, collapsing in a deflated mess of innards and powderized blood.
It’s suddenly quiet.
I look up, and what I see is you and this girl— this girl straight out of a fashion magazine type of girl! — and you’re helping her up and I’m willing to bet on my brother’s Instagram-winning pomeranian that she bumped into you — what a cliche — and now you’re looking at her with those big sparkling eyes and she’s biting her lip as she smiles back. She still hasn’t let go of your hand, and you’re making no move to let go of hers. She says hi and you say hi back. She giggles and tucks her hair behind her ear. You stand a little straighter.
And I know, just the way there are certain things girls just know, that you’ve turned. You’ve completely converted in less time than it took to microwave popcorn. It’s that moment . When a guy looks at you differently, when he can’t see past you anymore because nothing else enters his field of vision. You’re looking at her like that.
I guess it’s destiny.
Congratulations.
The white noise returns in a rush of too loud murmurs and train sounds.
What a joke. But I’m the punchline so instead of a clean exit, the swarm of commuters push in and I don’t have the energy or even the motivation to push my way out. I can see from the expression on your faces that this is the start of something new and here I am, watching it all unfold like a movie. Except it’s not a romantic-comedy. It’s a horror flick and in about five more seconds, the train shall crash and explode into smithereens leaving behind no traces of what had just transpired here.
But I’m not that lucky.
Only fortunate enough to be above average short/below average tall to stand behind some six-foot dude with broad shoulders so that he’s blocking my view. But I keep looking over his shoulder and from behind his arms. You’re still talking, and then you’re exchanging numbers, and then she’s touching your arm like you’ve known each other forever. I should look away, but since we’re talking about train wrecks, this is one I can’t keep my eyes off.
The train comes to a stop, and the doors slide open with a whoosh and pop. I watch the two of you get off, still in conversation. I sincerely hope she’ll make you happy. That she’ll keep that precious smile on your face. I hope she remembers your usual order at the coffee shop, and that she’ll appreciate it when you play your guitar for her. You disappear into the platform, and the doors slide closed.
And just like that, you’ve moved along with the rest of the world charging past me while I remain here, still convincing myself to laugh at the joke.
***
I’m chatting with my friend, sending each other messages in all caps, excitedly, sarcastically , talking about our holiday shifts at the shop for the next couple of nights, when you walk in hand-in-hand with Girl Who Stole My Meet Cute.
“They’re here.” Send.
“They’re sitting right across me.” Send.
Who? That dude you’re in love with?
“I’m not in love with him.” Send. I’m not .
I barely even know you. And, likewise, you don’t know me. We’re strangers. Two people with which there exists a well-defined line between us, uncrossable until our worlds overlap. But you exist within this universe in a subset that has nothing in common with mine. In the game of six degrees of separation, I’m the loser trailing behind.
Sure you are. We got drunk the night of his Meet Cute.
We didn’t. Not really. “How could I possibly be in love with someone I don’t even know?” Send.
The same way we fall in love with fictional characters and boys we see on TV .
She’s laughing at something you’re telling her, again explaining more with your hands than with your words. Her arm is looped around your elbow and your knees are touching. The way she leans in and the way you try to catch her smile makes me crave a shot of liquid fire down my throat. I accept my losses. Glancing up one last time, and catch you looking at me— at the advertisements behind my head, there are a lot of those. It lasts about a moment, and then we’re both looking back at what we’re supposed to.
“I’m not in love with him.” Send.
Whatever helps you sleep at night.
***
I start dating this guy in an effort to prove that I’m not in love with you. Wait, no. I start dating this guy because that’s what normal people do. Not because it’s the holidays and everyone’s dating and giddily happy and rushing from here to there because someone’s waiting for them on the other side. It was time I attempted forward motion. I thought of this as I sat on a bench on the platform. I remember thinking which one of these people were just as lonely as I am. Of course, they’re the ones who are never in a hurry to be somewhere for a date.
My dude is sweet, kind, and gentle. The kind to ask how my day went and how I would have liked it to be. The kind who texts regularly and often, calls just as much to ask if I’ve eaten, if so what did I have for my meal, and if not would I like to go out to eat with him. He’s not too big on making jokes, and on the rare occasion that he does they’re not very funny. Or at all. He’s a junior accountant whose only instrument is the calculator. But he’s nice.
We sit together on the train too, on the days he insists on accompanying me on the way back home or to work. We’d hold hands, but always it feels cold and awkward. Like my fingers don’t quite fit in the spaces between his. But I know this guy. I know his twisted fears, his darkest insecurities, and the dreams that keep him alive for one more day. I know him because before I decided I liked him and that I should ask him out, we were friends. We’d study together until morning in 24-hour fast food joints and cafes, cram projects and papers side by side, joke about what kind of future there is for a bunch of bums like us. Fast forward: it’s the kind where he received a standing job offer at a Top 3 Accounting Firm and three acceptance letters to Law School as soon as he graduated but opted for an MBA instead. Meanwhile, I have three months left of my contract at the cafe and after that I’m officially unemployed.
Just after the New Year, he breaks up with me.
“I don’t even know what you want,” he says. He’s right, for the most part. I just didn’t realize it was mandatory to being in a relationship. Maybe I thought we could figure it out along the way.
Just a few days before, he says to me, “Come join me at the company, the internship will be good for you,” he says. “I can help you get all the requirements for Law School, you can take the tests later this year,” he adds. “Just try something? Anything?”
This is what he means by not knowing what I want. That we don’t want the same things. That maybe we never had. We’re on the street, walking towards the train station and I think to myself, this is the last time he’s walking me home. “You’re right, I don’t,” is what I say. “You deserve better than that.”
And then, once we’ve reached the platform, “Up to here is good. Thanks.”
He waits until I’m inside the train, until the doors closes between us. We watch each other move in opposite directions, blur in motion, and completely disappear into the darkness of the tunnel.
But let’s face it, the only one moving forward is him.
***
I see you again well after people have given up on the potential for a snow day. It’s too late in the evening and I’m still trying not to count down the days I have left of this almost-okay job. I haven’t thought of you, really. In the weeks after my less-than-graceful breakup, my time has been well spent job-hunting for work that would make good use of my degree, ideally with good hours, benefits, and pays well. In the succeeding weeks, my criteria has been shaved down to: just any job.
You’re in my spot, sitting alone a few seats down from me, guitar between your knees, looking at the screen of your phone, into the depths of your phone, with a empty stare. Naturally, I’m curious. If only one could get paid for being curious.
You look different again. Your hair is darker— back to what it was when I first “met” you— and trimmed. I want to say that’s all that’s changed, but you look tired in a way that’s like you haven’t smiled in a while. And it kills me. We’ve never even met, but it kills me to see you like this. What do I have to do for the universe to orchestrate our meeting? Is it not reason enough that I would never let a frown touch your lips? That I would hold you above everyone else.
I lean forward to better discern the emotions across your face. As much as I can without invading your privacy. I should look away, leave you to drift back and forth into your mind, but you must have no idea how palpable your sadness is.
The train slows to a stop and the doors open. Out of habit, I look up first as a couple walks in, laughing like no one else is in love like they are. Like a cruel joke that only the universe is capable of making, it’s her who walks in, hand in hand with someone new. Panic rises up in my throat, and it’s not even my life’s story on the live feed.
You look up just as they walk past you to sit across you. She’s seen you, too. Unlike you, nothing’s really changed since the last time I saw her. She still smiled the same, tucked her hair back the same. Maybe her hair was longer, but that was it. For a second, her eyes widen and her lips part. It can’t have been more than a split-second, but that moment when your eyes met felt so much longer than that.
The shock on her face is gone before I could really look, easily replaced by the same sweet smile she gave you the day you met. Her new boyfriend puts his arm around her shoulders, and plays with the ends of her hair as he whispers into her ear. She laughs at something, but her eyes glance at you before abruptly flitting back to her new boy. And you, all you do is sit back and scoff and smirk pathetically at yourself as the happy couple do as you did not too long ago.
Wow, girl. Congratulations.
Two stops later, they finally get up to leave, and your eyes follow them out the door. It’s only when after the whoosh and pop that you and I can breathe again. When you look back, and at me, I don’t flinch at being caught staring.
I’m sorry , I want to say. But I don’t know if sorry is enough, or if sorry is what you even need or want. I’m not even sure if there’s anything I can say or do to make you feel better. But you don’t even know me, and when you really think about it, I don’t know you. We’re just strangers on this train, have been for the better part of I don’t even know how long anymore. Strangers don’t do that, hold each other to that level of consideration.
I still can’t breathe, I realize. Really breathe. The words are never there when you need them. And I need them now. Anything to fill in the uncomfortable void because I can’t say what I want to say with no sound. This can’t possibly be enough.
You’ll be okay . You’ll get through this .
She’s not worth it . It’s her loss .
But these sound like empty platitudes and you deserve more than that. But I’m nearing my stop, and all I can do for you is smile what I hope is a smile that conveys everything I have no words for:
Maybe it’s just me, but I want you to know that I would be so good to you . If you let me .
and,
We survived The Most Awkward Train Ride in Contemporary Times, I think we deserve cake.
Also,
I’m sorry. I think I have fallen in love with you and I don’t even know your name.
***
Of course, after that admission, it was only right that I rid myself of these inconvenient feelings for someone I know absolutely nothing about. It’s easier, after all, to fall in love with a complete and utter stranger. The image of you that I had in my head would always be so much more perfect than the reality. I wasn’t really in love with you, though I thought of you constantly and obsessively. I was in love with the idea of you. The romanticized, flawless, projected idea I had formed of you.
And it’s not okay to fall in love with that which only exists in your mind.
Acknowledgment is the first step, so I’ve heard. And four, maybe five, bottles of your favorite liquid fire is the second.
At least now I can say I’m on my way to recovery.
It’s properly summer now, and I have an actual job that I like and although it doesn’t pay as well all these lists says it should, it’s enough for me to move out of my lousy dorm room, buy myself a new set of summer clothes, and afford a haircut that did more than cut off the ends of my hair in a harsh straight line.
And yet, despite all these new changes, I still find myself standing behind the yellow line, still waiting to board passage on the Train called Life.
It’s early afternoon, and there’s more than enough empty seats on the train but never a lack of people to write about. I reach into my backpack for my earbuds, dig into its depths where I had tossed it in my rush to get out of the office before my senior made me run her errands for her. My fingers graze the ends, and I pull it out in one big tangle of white wire. I begin in the middle, but doing so only seemed to make it worse. I try the ends, but all I get is a new series of knots I can’t get out of.
“Let me do that for you.”
I blink, and my heart nearly stops.
It’s you . You’re sitting next to me with that dazzling smile, and I take it all in. Your eyes are still alit with electricity, like lightning being grounded on the earth. You’re still as beautiful as ever, and I stare as your mouth moves and I don’t hear a word you’re saying.
“Well?”
“Huh?” Again, I blink.
“I said you’ve been doing that for the last ten minutes and do you need help?” You smile and point to the earbuds still impossibly tangled in my hands. Tangled yes, but likely not as much as my innards are.
“Oh. Okay.”
I watch as you carefully work your way through the knots, your fingers— you have such beautiful hands— expertly weaving in and out of the mess. But only just so.
You laugh a little under your breath, and it’s dark and husky. “How...how did you even get these messed up this much?”
I don’t have an answer, partially because I’m too entranced by your piercings, all four of them on this ear, and partially because I never noticed them before. I also notice that you’re wearing a white shirt when I’ve only ever seen you in black. I look down, at your ripped jeans, at your shoes that are well travelled but obviously taken care of. Then at your guitar, and finally I can make sense of all the plushies you have there.
“I’m Sungjin, by the way.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” words that I never thought I would ever utter in your presence. Words that I say out of breath. I check the signs on tops of the door, counting off the number of stops I have left with you.
“What’s your name?”
“Three stops.”
“What?”
“Huh?”
You laugh, and it’s light like water from a babbling brook. That’s one mystery solved. “Nice to meet you, Three Stops.”
I squeak. And introduce myself. “I meant I have three more stops before I have to go.”
“Me, too.” You’re still working on my earbuds, but your hands aren’t moving as much and I think you’re not really even trying that hard. “Happy coincidence, huh.”
I’ve had it with coincidences, but I suppose they’re still so much better than attributing it all to fate. I wonder if you recognize me, I wonder if it even matters. I nod at your guitar. “Are you in a band?”
You beam at me with pride for who you are and what you’ve become. “I am. Actually, we have a gig today. I’m meeting my bandmates there. At the club. But not until another two hours or something.”
I need something, anything, to distract myself from staring too much at you and from putting too much meaning in the words you just said. I focus on the signs outside the window. “That’s really cool.”
“Yeah...maybe you can listen to us play sometime.”
“Maybe I will.”
We both look up as the voiceover announces our stop. I’ve listened to this lady far too many times, but I don’t ever remember thinking ill of her. Together, we walk out to the platform and up to the street where I have to squint because it’s suddenly too bright. This is the first time I’m seeing you in sunlight, and it suits you. You hand me my earbuds, and our eyes meet for a few seconds too long.
“So…” you say, not quite looking away or moving your hand away from mine.
“Yeah.”
“Probably…”
“Me too…”
Silence settles over us, amicable instead of awkward. You’re still looking at me, possibly into me, and I don’t really know you and you don’t really know me. But I have thought of you, perhaps too much. And maybe one moment is enough to change all the other moments that come after it. But this isn’t that moment. This is the moment that I will look back to and not ask myself What if.
This is where we both get off and move on with our lives. And I could choose to walk the other direction. But you’re looking at me like you’re a little nervous, like you’re not sure what else to say and how to say it. It’s nothing like how you looked like with your now ex-girlfriend and maybe I’m scared too because now there’s two of us not wanting to mess this, whatever this is, up.
But I’m not her, and you’re not him.
“I have one question, though.” Me. Taking a chance.
“Sure.” You. Trying, and failing, not to smile.
“What’s your opinion on Earl Grey flavored gelato?”
Your brows— I never noticed how expressive they were before— draw together in mock concentration. You push your hair our of your face and peer down the road and across the street. “I’ve never tried, but I think they have them over there. Only one way to find out, right?”
“Right.” I think this could be a trainwreck, but it could also be perfect.
And just like that, all the rush and all the color slow down to a stop and finally, finally , I step over the yellow line.