The year I graduated, I landed my first job at a bank in Manhattan. The position wasn’t glamorous, but for me it marked the start of real life. To save time, I rented a small apartment close to the subway line. Every morning, around 8:30, I would squeeze into the same train, carried along by the rush of commuters, half awake, half anxious, bracing myself for the day ahead.
That morning, just as the doors closed, I saw him.
He was standing a few feet away, wearing a dark blue coat, a bag slung over his shoulder, a book in his hand. The car was crowded and noisy, yet his presence made it feel strangely quiet. I found myself stealing a glance, then quickly pretending to scroll through my phone. Maybe it was my imagination, but I thought he looked at me, too. For a brief moment, my heartbeat lost its rhythm.
The next day, same time, same car—I saw him again. And I couldn’t help but smile to myself. In a city this big, it felt like I’d stumbled onto a secret that belonged only to me.
From then on, our quiet routine began. Almost every weekday morning, we would end up in the same car. I even gave him a name in my head—the guy in the blue coat. We never spoke, but there was a kind of unspoken understanding between us. Sometimes, when our eyes met, we both looked away too quickly, yet something small and warm lingered inside me.
I rehearsed so many possible openings.
Maybe I could ask, “Does this train go straight to the Financial District?”
Maybe I could mention the book he was holding: “I’ve been wanting to read that one.”
I even practiced the words silently, over and over.
Once, the train was so crowded we were pushed close together, close enough that I could hear his breath. My heart was racing, my lips parted as if to speak. But in that suspended second, the words vanished. The air felt frozen, and all I managed was silence. The train roared on, and my chance slipped away.
Still, I kept looking forward to those mornings. If I saw him, the whole day felt lighter. If I didn’t, everything seemed heavier, as if the city itself had dimmed.
And then one day, he wasn’t there.
The next day, still no sign.
And the day after that nothing.
The subway rattled, the crowds pressed in, but his familiar figure was gone, as if erased from my world. I told myself maybe he had changed schedules, maybe he had moved, maybe life had simply carried him elsewhere. But every morning, around 8:30, I kept searching the car, and every time, I came up empty.
I never knew his name. I don’t know if he ever really noticed me. But those two months remain unforgettable. They made my mornings different. They gave me a kind of quiet brightness that I’ve never quite felt again.
Six years have passed.I’m still working in Manhattan, but life is different now. From a nervous new hire, I’ve grown into a manager at the same bank. My days are busier, steadier. I no longer live in that small apartment near the subway—the city center is too noisy, too restless at night. These days I drive to work, trading subway crowds for traffic lights.
And yet, I often think back to those mornings. Sometimes, I even park my car near the old station and step onto that 8:30 train again, just to feel the possibility. I know it’s unlikely, but I still find myself scanning the crowd.
He never reappeared. Maybe he left New York. Maybe he’s married now, with a beautiful wife, maybe even kids. Still, I can’t forget those mornings we shared the same space, the same silence, the same fleeting glances. That anticipation—the simple hope of seeing him—was unlike anything else.
Sometimes I think not every story needs an ending.
The words I never said, the glances that never turned into conversations—they matter too.
They remind me that in this restless city, there was a moment when I truly felt something real.
