She sat across from me, one row over. Not directly—just enough of an angle that I could pretend I wasn’t looking at her, while still memorizing the curve of her wrist as she turned pages. The book didn’t seem particularly good. Her lips moved once, mouthing a sentence, and then she laughed quietly to herself. That’s when I knew I was going to miss her. Even before we spoke. Even before I knew her name—if I ever would.

As I watched her, a tightness crept into my chest. I saw the title—Ulysses, by James Joyce. A beautiful book. Difficult. She must be brilliant. The way her brown hair framed her face into a lazy kind of elegance—it made her look like a portrait, not a person. I never believed in love at first sight. But maybe this girl on the train would change my mind.

Her glasses caught the light just enough to frame her eyes like a painting. They weren’t just brown—too simple a word. They were amber in the center, edged in pale green and flecked with auburn near the pupil, like the inside of a forest if the sun had warmed it. Eyes you could get lost in, and never think to ask for directions.

She looked up—just once. Not at me, exactly. Past me. Through me. I held my breath anyway, like she might hear the noise in my head. I thought about speaking. About saying something clever. Warm. Something that might make this moment stretch a little longer than it should. But I didn’t. I watched her tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, and felt something in me settle—and ache.

Then she smiled. Small. Fleeting. But enough. I stood, careful not to disturb the fragile stillness, and walked over.
“Is this seat taken?” I asked.
She closed the book without marking the page.
“No,” she said, smiling again. “But it won’t be mine for much longer.”

“That’s fine,” I said, returning the smile. “Even a moment will last me a lifetime.”
I eased into the seat beside her, turning my body slightly toward hers.
“How’s the book?”

She laughed—a real one. Soft, unguarded.
“Dense,” she said, tapping the cover. “I’ve reread the same sentence four times just to understand half of it.”
“Joyce’ll do that,” I replied. “You finish a page and feel like you’ve run a marathon without remembering a single step.”
Her eyes lit up. “Exactly.”

Just like that, the space between us disappeared. The conversation flowed like something we’d done a hundred times before. No small talk, no formalities—just two people meeting in the middle of a moment neither of us had planned.

“So,” I asked gently, “what’s your story?”
She met my eyes, something fond and a little sad flickering there.
“Much like Joyce,” she said, “it might take a while to fully understand where I’ve come from—or where I’m going.”

I smiled, wistful.
“Maybe I’m more of a short story. Something you read on a train and forget by the next station.”
“I don’t think I’ll forget you,” she said, voice barely above a whisper.

And suddenly the moment felt fragile. Precious. Like holding a snowflake between two warm palms.

I laughed softly—not mocking, but full of something tender. Maybe disappointment. Maybe awe.
“Nor will I, you.”
Her eyes held something hopeful. And beneath it… something lonely.

“Maybe we’re just a line in each other’s books,” I said. “One that means nothing to anyone else, but the authors know the weight of it.”

She looked down, fingers brushing the spine of her book.
“Some lines are underlined,” she said. “Even if no one else sees the mark.”

The train began to slow. A hush seemed to fall around us. Her stop.

“I was supposed to get off three stations ago,” she said.
I smiled faintly. “Why didn’t you?”
She met my eyes. “Because you hadn’t sat down yet.”

“What would it mean to you,” I asked, “if I said I was supposed to get off eight stops ago?”
She smirked. “Then why didn’t you?”
“I hadn’t sat down yet,” I repeated. Her own words. The truest reason.

“Maybe we’re just a moment in one another’s wanderlust,” I said, holding her gaze.
My breath caught as I saw what could’ve been.

She blinked slowly, like taking a photograph with her mind.
“A beautiful moment,” she said. “One that lingers longer than it lasts.”

The train sighed to a halt. Doors opened like an exhale.
She stood, hesitated, then leaned in—not to kiss, not even to touch. Just to be close.
“If you ever write about this…” she whispered, “be kind to me.”

And then she stepped off.
No glance back.
No pause.
Just gone.

I didn’t get off at my stop either.
I sat there, her absence still warm in the seat beside me.

Epilogue

The train slows again—different city, different season. I’ve stopped counting the rides. But today, for some reason, I look up.

She’s there.

Same soft posture. Same half-curled smile as she reads something dense and beautiful. Hair a little shorter now, glasses the same. Maybe the book is different. Maybe it isn’t. She hasn’t seen me yet.

The doors open.

I stand, heart steady. No skipped beats this time—just warmth.
I step past her.

For a brief moment, our eyes meet.
Her smile deepens.
Mine does too.

But I don’t stop.
I don’t sit.
And this time, I get off at my stop.