A Letter to the Stranger I Fell in Love With on the Subway
It was just another tired day. Same subway ride, same eyes glued to my phone. The train moved along, and I scrolled through whatever nonsense was on the screen. Sometimes, I look up and watch the people around me, imagining their lives—who they are, what they dream about. There's someone with a weary look, maybe thinking about dinner, or heading back to an empty apartment where even the plants have given up. Then there's the guy in the suit—does he work hard, or is he just pretending like so many of us do in big cities, keeping up appearances? Maybe he secretly loves cheesy romcoms. And that woman with the shopping bags—maybe she's buying groceries for her cat, or hiding snacks from her kids. I wonder what secrets they carry, what they're running from. It's all here—worries, little smiles, tired sighs. Everyone's stories blending together, creating one shared moment.
And then I saw you.
To be honest, you’re no different than any other—just as tired as the rest of us, maybe a little slouched, like the kind of day that weighs on your back without you noticing. Your hair looked like you’d run your fingers through it too many times, a bit messy but not in a careless way, more like you gave up trying to tame it halfway through. Your clothes simple, a well-worn jacket over a plain shirt, comfortable jeans that have seen better days. Probably my age, maybe a year or two older. Maybe you were coming off one of those days that felt slow and fast at the same time, leaving you with just enough energy to make it home. But when I saw you, something clicked. It felt familiar, like home. Something about you made everything else fade away. And I couldn't help but wonder... could there be something between us?
It's strange, but it happens sometimes. I'll be sipping coffee, and my eyes will meet someone else's. Or someone walks by, and there's something about the way their hair curls. Nothing significant—not even sure if they're my type. I can barely remember their face. But for that fleeting moment, I felt something. A small hope, a sense of comfort in a stranger's face, the possibility that maybe, just maybe, we could be something more.
I knew how it would end. We had ten minutes, maybe less. All I could hope for was a delayed train. Then you'd get off, I'd get off, and that would be it. But maybe that's the beauty of it—falling in love with a stranger, even if just for a moment. Just long enough to leave a small ache, like a memory that lingers before slowly fading away.
Maybe next time, I'd smile. Maybe you'd smile back. We'd talk—about the city, or about nothing at all. And for a while, it would feel real. Just a short ride, a brief conversation, and then we'd part ways, back to being strangers. But maybe there could be more. We got off at the same stop, walked side by side under the streetlights, sharing a quiet smile. We ended up sitting on a park bench, exchanging stories. I would have liked to hear more about your life, and maybe tell you a bit about mine. More than anything, I wanted to understand how fate brought us to that moment. And that thought—no matter how fleeting—felt like enough.