It started on one of those thick New York nights in late August when the air feels like it’s sitting on your shoulders. The kind of night when the city hums like it knows something you don’t. I was running late to a rooftop party in Brooklyn, the kind where everyone pretends they’re relaxed but secretly checks who else showed up.
The subway was packed, of course. 14th Street, Friday, rush hour. I shoved my way into the car, found a spot by the door, and looked up just as she looked up too.
She wasn’t the kind of girl who demanded attention—no flashy outfit, no loud makeup. Just a white T-shirt, denim shorts, earbuds in, eyes focused on something that clearly wasn’t the world around her. But there was a calmness about her that didn’t belong to this city. Everyone else looked like they were fighting gravity; she looked like she’d already made peace with it.
The train jerked forward. I held onto the same pole as she did. For a few stops, I told myself not to stare. Then she looked up again, right at me. Not long enough to mean anything, but long enough that I felt it. That stupid, sinking moment when you realize your brain has already decided something your mouth hasn’t said yet.
A guy with a speaker started singing some old Fleetwood Mac song at the far end of the car. Everyone else rolled their eyes. She smiled. Not at me—just at the song. She mouthed the words like it was a private joke.
I thought about saying something. I even rehearsed a few lines in my head—something simple like “You like Fleetwood Mac?” But it felt too forced. And New York punishes hesitation.
At Delancey, the doors opened. She stepped out, earbuds still in, tote bag over her shoulder. For half a second she hesitated on the platform, like she was about to turn back. Then the doors closed, and she was gone.
I stayed on the train. I could’ve followed. I didn’t.
For the next week, I told myself I wasn’t thinking about her. But somehow, I kept finding reasons to take that same line at the same time. I’d stand by the same pole, pretending I was checking emails, eyes flicking up every time the doors opened.
Nothing.
Once, I thought I saw her reflection in the glass—a blur of white shirt and dark hair—but it was just some college kid wearing AirPods. The city does that to you. It turns ghosts into patterns.
After a few weeks, I gave up. Or told myself I did.
Then one night, maybe a month later, I was at a rooftop bar in Williamsburg. The skyline shimmered like it had been drawn in wet paint. I wasn’t really listening to whoever was talking beside me. That’s when I saw her.
She was across the crowd, hair up this time, laughing at something someone said. It was her. I knew instantly—the way you just know.
My heart did this stupid, teenage thing, like it forgot we were adults now.
I tried to work up the nerve to walk over. I even took a step. But then I stopped. What would I say? “Hey, we shared a subway ride once and I’ve been imagining conversations with you ever since”?
Before I figured it out, she disappeared into the crowd.
I pushed through people, searching the bar, the stairwell, even the sidewalk outside. Nothing. It was like she’d never been there.
The next morning, I woke up earlier than usual. I walked from my apartment down to the river. The city was still half asleep, the air cooler than it had been in weeks. I leaned against the railing and watched the ferries glide by, all heading somewhere.
I thought about how easy it is to lose people in this city. You can share a train, a moment, even a heartbeat—and still never see them again. Maybe that’s what makes New York both magical and cruel. You’re surrounded by millions, and sometimes the one person who feels different slips through before you even learn their name.
I tried to convince myself it didn’t matter. That it was just timing, or chance, or whatever word people use when they want to sound okay with being unlucky. But the truth was, I missed someone I’d never even known.
Months have passed now. Seasons have changed. The trains feel slower, the city colder. But sometimes, when I’m waiting on a platform and the wind rushes through the tunnel before the train arrives, I still catch myself looking up.
Not because I think I’ll see her again—though, if I’m honest, a part of me still hopes I might—but because that one small, impossible moment reminded me that connection doesn’t always need a story to matter.
Sometimes it’s just a look across a subway car. A song hummed under someone’s breath. The split second before the doors close.
And maybe that’s enough.
