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This is the second week Charlie has seen you riding the same train as him.
Not that he's counting. He wanted to make that clear to himself. He's just very meticulously observant like that— a trait compulsory as a theater director. Both a gift and a curse.
He bit back a frustrated groan, gripping the overhead handle instead. Speaking of being neurotically observant, he really needs to let go of Frank's delayed pick-up cues and relent on letting him do his own variations that are irrelevant to his scene or else he's gonna go insane.
He dismissed his cast tonight distractedly as he kept on checking his Rolex the entire time he was advising them to sleep it off and enjoy their weekend. It was one of those days where nothing is in sync. Their pacings were all off, lines got forgotten in the middle of the scene making it hard for them to show even a sliver of genuine emotion. It didn't help that one of the actors he recently just hired was sick. And the alternate for that said sick actor was made an alternative for a reason.
Charlie never wanted to go home as bad until now.
It wasn't the idea of his still semi-unfurnished, half-empty apartment that kept him buzzed. It was the act of it, the part where he rides the train even though he has to stand at the sticky floor the City of New York has no intention of cleaning.
So yeah, he's really not counting.
There's always a safe distance between him and you. It's not deliberate on your side, he concluded on the third time he noticed you while you were intently staring into space with your earbuds in. Too focused to be listening into music , he mused before. She must be listening to one of those audiobooks or podcasts. You were swaying your head in sync in the movement of the train. Sometimes you were mouthing the lyrics. Charlie may have spent too much time guessing what you were listening to.
There's just no reason for him to get close. Everytime he catches the train, you are already settled in with a book in your hands. He must have looked like a complete freak when he tried to tilt his head sidewards to catch the title. But Charlie thought it was harmless— him watching you read with your brows furrowed in concentration. Enraptured with how your eyes would fastly skim the words with your fingers tracing the pages. He keeps his smile to himself when you pause for a while to absorb what you just read. He thinks it's adorable when you keep going back to the same sentence again and again until you are satisfied.
But what sealed the deal of him not really coming close to you is what happened on Wednesday. How he got shamelessly hard that he had to put his messenger bag right across his crotch when he caught a glimpse of your bare thighs with the hem of your pencil skirt dangerously riding up as you fixed your seat, and just because you bit your lip when you amusedly smiled at something you were reading. Embarrassed and afraid of being called out as a pervert, Charlie almost dashed into the doors before it hissed open and almost left a perfect shape of him like a cartoon character.
All night he couldn't force himself to stop thinking of how soft your legs must feel against his large calloused hands that he had to take care of his problem with you solely on his mind. His mind got dirtier than he expected he felt extremely guilty afterwards.
Charlie's not even forty yet, he's only thirty-seven for crying out loud. Yet there he was thinking of a young perfect stranger with things that would easily label him as a dirty old man.
If the simple act of a girl innocently licking her lips gives him an instant hard-on, he knows in deep trouble. But Charlie doesn't even help himself in that situation, Donna and Beth's blind date set-ups were a traumatic experience enough for him to throw in the towel before he even got back in the dating game. He wouldn't admit it loudly, but he should've taken Frank's certain advice seriously.
It's a Friday night, hence the sardine-packed worth of people inside their car. Older people like him squeezed themselves to the earliest train they could catch instead of waiting for one with less people in it. He's used to it. Not bothered anymore by the elbows incessantly nudging him and shoes of different kinds stomping on his feet.
He's surprised to see you already going home (at least that what he thinks). It's only half past 8, the night hasn't started yet. He didn't catch you last Friday, which made sense. New York City during the last night of the weekdays is the best thing for young people like you. He's been there, where the sky is really the limit. Charlie had way too fun much during his 20s (pre-Nicole) that he woke up in a ferry on the way to Staten Island with no recollection on how he ended up there in the first place.
To this day, he still has no idea.
Seats have already filled in, the assholes jerk-offs from Wallstreet who wear too much cologne have already found a perfect place to stand near to you and initiate a half-assed conversation that you always manage to politely steer into a dead end. Charlie realized that he's the same as them— a man desperate for you. Surely you're getting tired of it, getting hit on by creeps who are clever to convince people to buy a ridiculous amount of stocks that's 'currently on the rise' over the phone but dumb to not get a clue to leave you alone. He backed off, thinking that you didn't need another pathetic man distracting you from your reading.
But did you have to really read Susan Sontag while he's only a few paces away? That's the same exact book that he's been reading for a few weeks now.
The battered paperback of your book is folded to the back together with the read pages. Different from the way you usually hold a book (fingers firmly pinching the bottom of the spine), making him think that you're being mindful about its controversial cover.
But as pretentious as it sounds, he knows a Susan Sontag book from a mile away and you're definitely reading one right now. He did a panicked patting down of his bag, almost smacking his forehead in sheer exasperation when he didn't feel his own copy inside. Charlie pursed his lips, clenching his jaw instead of snapping his fingers at the wasted opportunity of pulling it out and have that, as much he hates the word, meet-cute of catching each others' eyes over the pages as you both realize that you're reading the same book.
Could he be more pathetic? This is what he gets for watching too much TV.
It did not help him to stop thinking about you. He wonders what do you think about it. No one reads that book to their own accord, it's not everyone's cup of tea. It's not really the go-to book to read during a commute too. Are you a college student? A liberal arts major? No, you dress too nice and too corporate for a student who just wants to push through finals. You're working, somewhere, on those tall skyscrapers in downtown Manhattan. But it's obvious that you just got started, you have that fresh excited look in your face even though the work is downright exhausting. Unlike those other corporate people who look like their soul just got sucked out of them and now working in autopilot.
People usually read self-help books, every 'How-to's known to man: How to get your shit together and do it flawlessly? How to churn butter? How to make money while sleeping? How to sleep? How to conceal evidence?
But you don't really read those kinds of books, it's always the creative ones. The one with the titles that looks a bit pretentious but are actually good. It makes him wonder what your bookshelf looks like— you look like the girl who reads Ulysses and Mamet but you don't treat it like it's your personality and doesn't announce it every five fucking seconds like every people do.
It could be a great game. To point out the books sitting in your bookshelf that are also in his bookshelf.
There's an annoyed huff besides him. Charlie looked up to the side, pissed off that he got distracted on thinking about you. The sound came from the old man sitting at the very end of the seat aisle. Another patron of the car other than you and him. He's in his usual seat, near the doors. Probably mid 50s, his curly hairs sticking at the edge of his paddy cap. Big fists clenched shut with his arms tightly crossed across his chest. Ready to punch those slimy pickpockets who are stupid to imitate Matt Damon's stealing skills in Ocean's Eleven.
Funnily enough, that grunt is intended for Charlie. The man is looking sharply at him with his big wide angry eyes. It seems like the he's officially tired of his antiqs, like his whole gazing and desperate staring at you is so loud that he can't hear himself think.
The man jutted his head in your direction. By some weird Shining New Yorkers share, Charlie seemed to understand what he's trying to send out: Are you going to talk to her like a normal person or are you trying to freak the poor girl out until she calls the transit police on you?
Fuck, is he that obvious? He blinked fast, sputtering as his defensive stance activated. He lost his footing there, as if he's caught red-handed. A kid who got caught with his hands inside the cookie jar. There's always that one random person who sees you in times when you wish nobody saw you do something cripplingly stupid. For Charlie, that person is the grumpy old man who looks like he's tired of his shit.
He shrugged, acting dumb. He's a director, he gave that man an award-winning acting that will consider him for a Tony nomination. I don't know what you're talking about.
The man with a dark cap almost bellowed in laughter. But instead, he just snorted. Loud enough to make Charlie embarrassed and insulted, Sure kid. I believe you. No, really I do.
The loud insulting snort caught your attention, making him panic. You looked up at his side of the train, the trance of the book snapped out of you. It might be a coincidence, or it might be that you felt someone straight-up staring at you. But either way, you caught his pining eyes for the very first time.
He didn't see you on that angle before, and it's enough to send him into a heart attack. Stray hairs are framing your forehead. You have that mid-reading glow on your face, like you're not sure for a minute where you are after being captivated by the world of your reading.
Charlie is gobsmacked by the sight of you. The racing thump of his pulse are defeaningly loud in his ears. Your eyes are more tantalizing than he thought it would be. It's an otherworldly experience to be the on other end of your stare. God, you're a vision, it's making his chest hurt. He ought to see a doctor.
You broke it as fast as you looked at him to survey the train. While you're only realizing that the passengers have doubled, Charlie tried to calm himself down. Taking few slow breaths, he's rationalizing that a lot of people do that after being engrossed on something. You're still materializing, pulling yourself together in reality. It doesn't mean anything. But for him, it's everything. In the sea of tired people who couldn't be bothered, your eyes fell on him. It made him nervous. But truly, he's flattered.
You immediately closed your book, turning the cover near your chest to hide the cover. You checked the aisle of your seat again, like you're waiting for something.
Charlie watched as you started to open your mouth to speak. Your faint lipstick is already wearing out from your constant worrying. Your lips slowly parted and he suddenly had the urge to run his thumb across it to feel how soft they are.
Goddamit Charlie, get it together.
"Oh, here, do you want to sit?" you said to the kid with her mother standing next to her. Bags of groceries hanging on her arms, trying her best to hold on to his daughter who's trying not to get drowned to the looming figures of people around her. You noticed how they badly want to stretch their legs, they must be standing too long. The mother is evidently fatigued, the exhaustion of the day and the rush hour is taking a toll on her. But she's trying to keep up with a façade with her daughter.
The kid, who's smart enough to look at her mother first before speaking meekly nodded her head.
"We're alright—"
You quickly gathered your things to make way. Not stopping for a beat before the mother could turn your offer down. Out of all the men sitting next to you with their legs wide open to make room to their invisible balls, you're the only one who stood up.
"No, no. It's okay. I'm quite near at my stop anyways." Your voice is a siren song. He didn't hear the grating and clanking sound of the rolling wheels. He only heard the alluring melody of your voice.
Charlie knows that you're lying. A sweet, thoughtful white lie. You're still far away from your stop, because he's still far away. Your destination is only one stop away from him. You're also living in Brooklyn— somewhere between Greenpoint and Flatbush. Not far from Prospect Park where he's living.
Your generous act made him confirm his theory: you're not from here. No one offers up their seat in the norm here, New York is the best place to be selfish. No one judges you if you don't care and pretend that you didn't see shit. They're too caught up in their own problems that not giving a rat's ass to the point that it's considered selfishness is somewhat accepted. But you, you're too aware and selfless to be a local.
The train slowed down, pushing you to find something to hold on to. With the hiss of the doors opening, another batch of passengers squeezed themselves in. The amount of the people trying to make it inside is twice as to the people going out of the train.
The flurry of impatient people shuffling in nudged you further and further to the other side of the car. Your arms are crossed to your chest, the tattered book tucked between them. You're trying to get as small as possible, probably afraid to get whacked by huge stainless tumblers and laptop bags.
It took a ridiculous amount of time to Charlie to register what's happening. The unbudging flow is pushing you where he's standing. Exactly right in front of him.
Shit .
You're being polite, he can see that as you left a breathable space between the two of you. You don't want to burst his personal bubble. But the Q Train has other plans, because soon enough the doors closed like a death trap making the train jerk forward. The mechanical force is so strong that it immediately sent you flush against his chest.
You let out a surprised sound. Charlie swallowed down his. He nearly lost his balance and it's not because of the train, but because of the jolt you gave him as soon as you got pressed against him. He stopped breathing. Nearly passing out from the lack of oxygen entering his brain. He's used on admiring you from afar, already grateful that he got to see you everyday. But this, you being close to him is a dangerous risk he desperately wants to take. The moment he takes a breath, Charlie will know what you smell like. And he's scared, because he's sure that he'll start looking for it from then on.
"Careful." His paw of a palm only hovered on the top of your shoulder to steady you, cautious to touch you. Charlie became terribly conscious about his appearance, suddenly aware how wrinkled his shirt is. He's wearing a day-two pants. He racked his brain if he smoked today (he didn't), but he's certain that his coat has some undertones of nicotine on it. He wonders if you hate the smell of cigarette, he wonders if you s—
He heard you mumble against his chest. The vibration of your voice didn't pass through the layers of his shirt and coat. It's a great feeling. Warm and oddly comforting.
"Hmm?" Charlie ducked his head down, his ear near to your lips. Looking at the floor with his eyes radiating with undivided attention so he could hear you over the noise of the train.
You followed his lead, tilting your chin a little to his ear so you can repeat what you said. "I said 'thank you'."
You sounded shy, Charlie noted. There's a hint of uncertainty and apology laced in your tone. Like you're telling him something he can't decipher yet.
"No problem." He should've stopped right there. Continue the ride with you this close to him flustered against his chest. You seemed comfortable. Cheeks blooming red that he tabbed from the heat around the car. He didn't want to do or say something that will make you want to pull out your pepper spray and use it against him.
But he couldn't help himself. Before he could reason out that it's not the greatest idea his genius brain came up with, words came flowing out of his mouth.
"No plans for tonight?" He silently winced, realizing that he just shot himself in the foot. It's a normal question to a friend or to an acquaintance when you're trying to have a small talk. It's not the go-to question to ask to a complete stranger.
Great, now she knows you're watching her. If you got your nose broken in a few seconds with her punch, you deserve it. Why didn't you tell her about the weather today or some shit instead?
But the punch never came. He cautiously looked down at you, only to see you already staring. Charlie witnessed how your smile grew to a bright amused one. Watching how your face glow like morning daylight. He wanted to look around, ask the passengers if they're seeing what he's seeing. Ask them if he could pinch him, check if he's not dreaming. But he couldn't move, and he wanted to keep it all to himself.
You're staring for a long time. Definitely taking your time. Your eyes tracing the slope of his nose, studying his five o'clock shadow (reminding him that he should shave soon), then back to his eyes. Charlie's thinking that you might be studying his face real hard so you can file a restraining order.
"Sorry," you apologized. You shook your head, becoming flustered even more. "Uh, no. No plans for tonight. Somebody sneezed on my roommate on the train yesterday. So, I'm playing nurse tonight."
You sputtered, brows knotting in pure panic when you realized how kinky it sounded. You backpedaled desperately, "I mean... I..ummmm... taking care... making sure my roommate's getting better." You paused, taking a resigned sigh. "Okay, now I'm just saying random words here and I'm hoping you're getting what I'm trying to say."
Charlie let out an unexpected laugh. But a very delighted one for that matter. It lifted the tension he's been carrying on his shoulders. He's not the only one stumbling here.
This is the very first time she's talking to you, yet you look so comfortable speaking to him like you've known him for so long.
"Yeah..yeah, yeah, I get it. I know what you mean. Don't worry. Sorry, I.. I'm not laughing at you. Don't take it the wrong way. I hope your—" Is it a codename for a boyfriend? Are you in a relationship? "—roommate is okay."
You waved off your hand when you saw him being concerned. "She's a tough cookie. She was planning to work this morning with a flu, I had to lock her in the apartment so she could take a rest...Kidding, the 'whole locking her in the apartment' thing is a joke. But she's very adamant that I almost did it."
"Hey, no judging. It's pretty understandable. You did what you have to do." Charlie is smiling fondly as he actively listened to you. You're not giving dry one-line replies, you're giving him countless windows of opportunities to keep the conversation going. He still thinks he's dreaming. Maybe he's passed out in the train, sleeping the exhaustion of the whole day. And anytime soon, he'll wake up, alone in the car at the Coney Island stop with his wallet and messenger bag stolen from him.
"Where's your twin?" You asked with the same manner he asked you about not having plans for tonight, easy and familiar.
"My twin?" Charlie wished he didn't look like a clueless gaping fish. Are you just talking to him because you're mistaken him for someone else? The probability of that happening is through the roof. Welcome to New York.
You just chuckled. The melody of it making the hair on his neck stand up. He had the sudden urge to reach up behind and rub it. But he didn't want to move, because you will move away from him. Charlie is treating you like a butterfly that landed on his shoulder that he didn't want to fly away. At least not yet.
"The little boy you were with? The one with a sick Lego Bionicles. He didn't match up your height yet but he looks exactly just like you."
He blinked, lips slightly parted. Yup, he looks like a gaping fish now alright. By twin do you mean— "My son," he choked out, his throat bone dry all of a sudden. It clicked on him, like putting the last piece of a giant jigsaw puzzle, he brought Henry to the theater last week. By then, you're already aware on his existence. You're aware about your little night train rides together, on your same Q train schedule.
His face slowly broke into an amused, bewildered grin. Charlie's having a hard time believing that you know him in a vague way like he is to you. "It's my son," he repeated "He's staying with his mother today."
He carefully ran his left hand through his hair, adjusting the stray hair that fell on his forehead when he bent down earlier to hear you more clearly. It's a dual purpose, he really 'needs'—even though he doesn't look at the mirror that much— to fix his hair and he's also going for that not-so-subtle way of showing that there's no wedding band.
You hummed a noise that you heard him. You bit back a smile, somehow it felt like you already knew that.
"I've been looking everywhere for that exact same model for days now. Is it a limited edition? I'm this close in giving my nephew a lame plain socks on his 9th birthday. Pretty sure my brother will denounce my title as an aunt very soon."
Charlie learned that you have a sibling. "I got it while we're in LA. He made it to first string on their baseball team, that called for a brand-new Lego."
"Oh yeah, that's definitely a brand-new Lego celebration," you paused. An indecipherable emotion flashed across your face. It's gone in a blink. "Socks at Sears then."
"How about a Scrabble?" Charlie suggested. "It would receive the same reaction as plain socks but at least you got to see them tear up the wrapper fast because they were expecting a toy, not an educational material."
"That's evil." Your amazed reaction didn't reach your eyes. "But I like it. I'll take that suggestion. Thanks."
"Glad I can help." Charlie could feel the fire of your conversation running low. The time is ticking. Did he say the wrong answer? Did he offend you? Fear of cutting your talk, he blurted out. "Must be heavy." He gestured on your chest. Right exactly at it .
"Huh?" You didn't have the leisure of time to fix your coat, showing a meager amount of your outfit underneath. A chiffon white blouse— top a little bit undone to give room to breathe. It's a safe attire, no one will talk to you in your work with that angle. But he's different, isn't he? Not everyone has the Chrysler Building-height he has that gives him the perfect bird's eye-view of everything. Especially the soft contour of your cleavage.
"The book," he elaborated. The accidental innuendo he said mixed with what the sight of your pretty blouse made him sweat slightly on his hairline. Maybe it's a Freudian slip, maybe it's not. "It's a heavy read."
His arms are on the either side of your head, shielding you from others. It's pretty easy for him to do it, protecting you from the jostling movement of the train. You can't see the passengers on your right and left. If he's seeing something from you, Charlie's got the exclusive view.
"Oh, this." You quickly shook your head, not questioning how he knew what you were reading. You didn't realize that you're hugging your copy of Regarding the Pain of Others, tucked between your arms and chest. "Please don't quiz me, I'm just trying to help my roommate because she told me that her boss reads it. She wants to score some major brownie points when she gets back to work."
Quiz? "Do I look like a professor? Do I have that stern punchable face that will order you to write a five page paper on what it takes more than horrific imagery to turn people against war, due on Monday?" Charlie teased, his brows knitted in intrigue. He calibrated his momentum, he's dead-on flirting now.
The rush you're giving him is making his fingers tingle. The speed of the train is in sync with his racing pulse. He didn't remember when was the last time he flirted in-real time. He may have written some e-mails in the past that could be translated into flirting. But not like this. Charlie doesn't have the power to think through his words before typing them. Delete what he didn't like and rewrite it with more gusto. He can't read out loud what he wrote again and again with different tones and judge if it's good enough to send.
This is riskier, but a hundred times better. Incomparable. He doesn't even remember the last time he talked to other people outside of the theater and Henry. And maybe Nicole, only for compulsory reasons.
"You're not?" You volleyed the question back. Wearing a feigned mid-gasp shock expression with a mischievous grin sitting on your lips. "Stern? Sure. But punchable? Absolutely not. Please take it as a compliment when I have mistaken you for one. If you were my professor back in college, maybe I didn't have to read this book again to recall it. I would've considered your Monday deadline too. Even though that's punishable by a stooping low student evaluation that will kick you out of the department right away."
"Really?" Charlie asked, feeling too much and too real feelings for a fake scenario you created.
"Really," you confirmed, like it's the simplest question in the whole wide world.
"I can give you a crash course about it," he offered. Not thinking too much about it. Because he really wants to do it.
"Careful." You attempted to mimic his soft deep register from earlier. There's a little something to it, sprinkled with coquettishness that made him magnetized to you even more. "I might hold you on to that."
"Please do." Please, please really do. But Charlie heard himself how desperate he sounded. As a last-minute bandaid, he added, "For your roommate's benefit."
You're giving him the look again. The same exact one when you were asking him about the Lego Bionicles. It's a coaxing stare, like you're gently urging him to stumble into an idea only he can get into.
But Charlie is too caught up. Too caught up with how your scent embraces his senses. You're spoiling him way too much. From now on, everytime he rides the train, he will no longer smell the pungent old smell that's already been there since the 80s and the dried-up piss with a smell that sticks on the clothes. He'll now remember the faint apricot smell of your hair.
With how you're squeezed and pressed on him for a long time, the last evaporating spritz of your perfume will be glued on his shirt. That wrinkly cream-colored shirt of his will smell like fresh plums.
You're intoxicating, in the very best way imaginable. You're making him lightheaded like he's one stop away from another blackout ferry trip to Staten Island.
Your eyes trailed down on his chest. With your fingers, you pinched the material of his shirt where the buttons meet. You stood up in your toes, lips ghosting on his jaw. He turned his head near your face to accommodate you.
What you're about to say is only for him.
"I like your shirt," You whispered, the hushed tone hit him different. The cold air of your breath almost pushed him to the brink of rolling his eyes behind his head. It's quieter and softer, treading past the flirting talk. With the barely-there touch you gave him, Charlie knows you're inviting him.
"Oh, thank you." He looked down, watching how your dainty fingers rest on his chest. He felt hot, the floor of the train is turning into lava. Your feet put together are wedged between his wide stance, perfect for him. Your faces are so close together that you're one train bump from brushing your lips against his. "I like your smile."
"Thanks."
You and Charlie shared a private moment. A very intimate one for two strangers to share. There's no people around. Just you and him. Looking at each other like cameras weren't invented yet and it was the only way to remember a face.
The train screeched to a halt. This time, Charlie finally held you, his hand firmly touching the side of your waist to hold you down. He didn't break his gaze, so are you.
The speakers of the train announced the stop and the transfer. You blinked, that finally broke the spell. This is your stop.
Time's up.
You purse your lips into a defeated smile. You peeled yourself away from him. He can sense the disappointment. It didn't feel right. "I'll see you around."
"I—" Before Charlie can even talk, the surge of people wanting to get out pushed you out. Impatient strings of 'move along' and 'excuse me' muffled his faltering words. You're being herded to the doors, everyone is moving so fast that he didn't know what to do.
He can't speak. What happened between the two of you gave him a whiplash that he can't get himself together to form a coherent thought. It's like he got pulled out from a dream— and he can't quite distinguish what is the reality and what is not.
Charlie looked down, noticing that he's stepping in a piece of ticket. He picked it up, not minding that he's literally picking up trash from the floor of the most populated city in the country.
It's an art exhibit ticket from the Guggenheim, dated a month ago. The print of the sole of his shoe stamped at the edge of the paper. It must have fallen from your book.
Suddenly Charlie flinched, as if somebody charged a defillbirator to 260 and jumpstart his already racing heart. What the fuck am I doing? His feet started moving. Fast. Pushing and shoving people to make way to get out of the train. Ignoring the irritated groans and sharp glares of the passengers.
He didn't get your name.
You didn't get his name.
Two steps from the door, the familiar commanding voice garbled on the speakers. It's insulting him, telling him how stupid he is that he didn't at least intdoduce himself to you. Charlie can hear the condescending tone of the pre-recorded announcement he learned to block out for living in the state for so long, " Stand clear of the closing doors, please. "
The doors snapped in his face. It mocked him, how close he was in getting to you. The train once again moved, and you're gone as fast as the two of you made a connection.
——
Charlie stepped on the train right on the clock the following night. But this time, we aren't around. Even on the next night, and the next, and the next, and the next.
You vanished into the thin air that he started questioning that maybe you're a piece of his imagination he created. That he was actually talking to himself that night the two of you met and the people didn't care about the crazy mumbling man who's speaking two-person dialogues during rush hour.
Charlie felt like he's Tyler Durden, only less cooler and more depressing.
He wanted to ask the old man about you. If he saw you ever since that night. But this is real life, people in the city are not characters in a romcom who will freely talk to him and point your location at the airport or wherever the climax of romcoms happen.
The ticket may not be even yours. It may have already been there before you got squeezed on him. But he didn't care, Charlie treated it as a memory of yours.
He kept going back to that night, replaying the scenes on his head with all the lights of his apartment turned off. The look— he surmised that you were telling him through your eyes to ask you out. You were giving him thousands of signs to do that, yet he didn't follow through. Charlie never wanted to punch himself in the face so bad until now.
He's convinced that it's the universe's way of punishing him. It gave him one chance to meet you. To get the chance to see you other than the uncomfortable confines of the moving train.
But he missed his stop.
Now everytime he rides the train, you're the only one who's running in his mind.
Everytime he sees his Susan Sontag book in the bookshelf, Charlie wonders if you finished it and got through it.
Everytime he plays Scrabble with Henry, he remembers how you could have bought one because of him.
Every second of every day, Charlie is thinking about you. Thinking what could have happened when he got past the closing doors and caught you getting out of the subway. If he had the chance, he'd apologize for being so slow to see the signals and take you out for a coffee and walk you home.
He'll stop at the steps of your apartment. Put his hands in his pockets as he bid you a good night. There's no false pretenses on his actions, he just wants you to be safe. If you asked him if he wants to come up, he'll say yes. It will be an honor to finally see your bookshelf.
Ever since that night, you, the nameless girl who complimented his wrinkled shirt haunts him both in real life and in his dreams.
You, the girl with no name, made him feel so alive for only a matter of minutes after feeling numb and dead for years. Even Charlie can't do that to himself, but you did. You looked at him the way nobody ever looked at him before.
He wonders if he'll ever feel that same rush of aliveness again. He wonders if he'll see you again. Somewhere in Brooklyn.