UNWRITTEN CHAPTERS

I walked those streets with a new schedule, a different rhythm. The empty spaces on the platform felt louder, the distant hum of the train a reminder of what had passed

Another day, and it’s the usual; here I am sitting with a novel in my hands. The fifty-minute ride to work couldn’t be spent any better; it’s boring, nothing exciting to look at outside. It’s been months riding the same train; there is nothing new to see. As I turn to page 82 of my book, which lacks traditional chapters, it features only lists of names, which initially confused me. However, I quickly adapted and became engrossed in every page I turned.

Someone sits next to me, and despite me feeling a presence nearby, I don’t glance up, social niceties long faded. Regardless, tomorrow will bring a new face. I think someone is speaking to me.” The girl on the train, interesting, “he comments, “Are you the girl? “He asks.

I look up and I can’t believe my eyes. It’s the guy that I have been crushing on, sharp as always. I smile; there is nothing else to be said. I go back to my book, but who am I kidding? There are no writings I can understand on that page; it’s all gibberish, my mind is screaming, ‘he talked to me.’ If there were a camera in my brain at that moment, it would capture a robotic happy dance. But I continue to pretend to read.

 Every story has a beginning, so let’s start from the beginning.

 It all started with the first time I saw him, standing near the rails of the station as we waited for our train. It was easier to spot him in a crowd of hundreds of people. He had this well-tailored suit fit for a magazine, which portrayed confidence, yet he didn’t seem like the type who would pose for a photoshoot; he was his own portrait. The way he stood, never fidgeting, unlike the rest of us, who seemed restless. Looking at him, you would think the train only stopped for him, and for the rest of us, we were just common passengers who hoped the train would have enough space to squeeze us in so we could save up some coins.

 As the train came to a halt, he just seemed to glide through the door, which always stopped where he stood.  And for the rest of us, we fought our way through the door, scrambling for what seats were left, while some of us dripped with sweat like we were just from a marathon on a sunny day, never mind it was a cold morning. And as I walked in one carriage after another, looking for a place to sit, you could not help but notice him sitting in one of the aisle seats as though he had been there for a minute, as though he wasn’t outside with us at all. His suit, which was always well pressed, was in perfect condition, and not an iota of dirt was in his shoes. While the rest of us adjusted our clothes, wiped our sweats, and regretted why we had won the white shoes, wishing for time, we would have enough money to buy our own cars.

There was this mystery around him that made me curious to want to know him. He just looked like someone who did some important office job, somewhere that could impact one’s life. It seemed so unlike him to wake up early to commute on a train like the rest of us who wanted to save up on transport. Weeks would pass by, and day by day I would see him, same script, standing by waiting on the train, but always in a different suit, which seemed not to be repeated as often. He became the highlight of my mornings, and each night I fell asleep knowing I couldn't bring myself to miss the train - not when he'd be there. My weekends became long because I wasn’t able to see him since the train had different schedules on the weekend, hence most people used other means of transport on the weekend. Accordingly, Mondays became my favorite day of the week, the only time it has ever been. He was like a never-ending ice cream snack, with different flavors each day, which I was only allowed to eat five times a week.

On one random Thursday, I was sitting across from him, looking all glamorous, and at some point, our eyes met, and I could see a slight smile hidden under the disguise of someone who didn’t want to be too obvious. And I thought to myself, maybe that’s a start. And as the power of familiarity grew, we started nodding to each other as I passed him on a section my mind had recognized that he always sat on. And as weeks passed, we were no longer strangers, and confidence was brewed to sit next to each other. We said our hi’s and we became aware of things we had in common, books and fitness. So, we arranged for book exchanges and organized occasional evening runs. And a casual friendship was brewed.

Each weekday, at exactly 6:30 a.m., like clockwork, I knew where to find him, standing by the platform's edge. And even on mornings when I was a few seconds late, I knew which part of the train he'd be in. I could speak about what job he did, but the fantasy of it all was not in the knowing; it was the mystery of who he could have been and not who he was.

And then it happened. Months later, I quit my job, and the rhythm of my mornings changed. I asked him one time if he still used the train, and he told me no. I chose to believe that, to him, there was no more me in those carriages, no anticipation of seeing a familiar face among strangers. The ritual was broken, the unwritten chapters of our mornings left suspended in time, never to resume.

I walked those streets with a new schedule, a different rhythm. The empty spaces on the platform felt louder, the distant hum of the train a reminder of what had passed. I thought about the stories we never told, the jokes we never shared, the conversations that would never stretch into late evenings. And yet, there was a strange comfort in knowing that some things exist only in their brief, perfect moments.

Not all encounters are meant to last, and if you agree or disagree, I would love to hear from you in the comment section. I believe the beauty of it lies in the unwritten chapters.