He tried, once, not to look for her.
That morning he forced himself not to look out for her. He pulled out his phone, scrolled through meaningless headlines, anything to prove that he was in control of this quiet obsession.
And yet again he failed
They slid across the crowd, weaving past coats and briefcases, past tired eyes amongst the crowd until they landed on her. Always her. Seated in her place beneath the fading advertisement. Book in hand, gaze lowered, legs crossed. A pulse of recognition lit in his chest the moment he found her.
He hated it, how he niticed every little detail wondering if she did too.
This was madness. They had never spoken. Not once. He didn't know her name, her voice, her story. And yet, every morning at 7:37, she sat at the platforms like she belonged there.
It was a ritual now, a dangerous one.
He'd began to memorize her routine, how she carefully crossed her legs after sitting down, how she constantly tapped her foot on the hard,cold floor when the train was late almost like a way to reassure herself that the world was still there.
Their eyes met again that morning, as if the universe had rehearsed the moment for them.
This time, she didn't look away quickly. Her gaze lingered, heavy. His heart slammed against his ribs. The air between them vibrated with something unspoken, something he didn't dare name.
And then the train arrived, and She slipped inside just before he did
The ride blurred past in silence, the chatter and laughter of strangers crashing against the wall of his thoughts. He kept stealing glances her eyes in that moment, the way her eyes held him there. It wasn't his imagination. It couldn't be.
It had been 2 months since he first noticed her. 2 months of passing glances, of aching silence, of questions that clawed at his insides.
Who was she? What was she running from when she lost herself in those unread pages? Did she wait for him too, counting the minutes until 7:37?
The train screeched to a halt at his stop. He stood, gripping the cold pole too tightly, his knuckles pale.
He told himself again that tomorrow he'd speak. Just a word, a sentence, anything to break the unbearable quiet.
But as he stepped onto the platform, an emptiness crept into his chest. He knew himself too well and how he enjoyed the comfort of his own silence.