The brown tile platform, already littered with commuters, started to become uncomfortably stuffed with people as I waited for my train home. As yet another train-rider squeezed her way in front of me, I sighed in frustration and turned my head to mutter scathing remarks to myself. And then I saw you.
You were looking straight at me. Your face was blurred, but your dark eyes locked onto mine and would not release me. I dimly registered your spiked black hair, checkered scarf, and silver earring in some very large gauge. None of that affected me – nor did you take notice of my unwashed hair, shining with oil, or my ill-fitting jeans. We walked toward each other, weaving through the crowd as a train pulled into the station. Our hands met as the doors opened, and the opposing streams of people poured in and out of the train. We boarded together, standing in what little space the other passengers would allow us, with our fingers linked.
My stop, just two over, came before yours. I got off the train, turning to look at you again. Our eyes held each other until the train pulled away. I wished that I had asked your name, at least.
It bothers me less that I may never see you again than the thought that if I do, we might just walk right by each other, not noticing.