The Lady On The Train

She boarded before me and departed after, always the same carriage, always the same quiet seat. At first, I told myself she was just another commuter, but soon, I knew better. Her presence had a gravity of its own. A subtle smile seemed etched upon her lips, as if joy had lingered there too often to ever leave. She moved with a quiet ease, effortless and spare, yet somehow magnetic. Her eyes were calm, kind, and alive all at once.

Even strangers seemed to feel it. Rough voices softened in her company. Once, a group of foul-mouthed boys clattered aboard, but her mere presence stilled them, as though she had spoken without words. It was as though we shared a pact of silence, all drawn by the same magnetic pull. Were they, too, choosing this train only for her? Did they, under the same spell as me, go home haunted by her?

Sometimes she read, her eyes moving steadily across the page. Sometimes she hummed faintly to herself, unaware of the music she gave away. Sometimes she gazed from the window, hands clasped loosely behind her back as though cradling some invisible treasure. Her small gestures mesmerised me. They seemed ordinary, yet in her they became extraordinary.

I never wished to intrude. A glance as I boarded, another as I stepped off, was all I allowed myself. Yet, slowly, her gentleness altered me. I was not a naturally smiling man, but I found myself smiling softly at the beginning and end of every ride, as if her presence had reshaped my face. I had first chosen the train over the bus because of winter delays, yet long after winter had passed, I remained unwilling to leave her behind.

The anticipation grew sharp. Before boarding, I would feel the rush of expectation, my chest tightening as if holding my breath. I rehearsed conversations in my mind like an actor, only to abandon them. Sometimes I imagined her voice might disappoint me, then recoiled at the thought, ashamed, as though I had sinned against her by doubting perfection.

One day, she shifted seats, passing close by me. For the first time, her scent reached me. Roses, perhaps, yet also a trace of warm spice, the clean brightness of freshly cut wood. Familiar and unfamiliar at once. It lingered in the air long after she sat down, and in that moment, she became not only someone I watched but someone I felt, almost as if her presence had reached into me and stayed there.

The thought of speaking grew unbearable. I told myself I would sit beside her, just once. I imagined her voice, its timbre, its rhythm. Rejection would hurt, yes, but perhaps it would also free me. What bound me most was not knowing—the endless ache of silence.

At last, I retreated. One Wednesday, I forced myself back onto the bus. For a brief moment, it felt like victory: I had mastered my longing. But by the next day, the hollowness grew unbearable, and on Friday I returned to the train, heart resolved, words ready at last.

But she was gone. Her seat was empty. I checked the other carriages, then stopped. I returned the next day, and the day after, always to the same carriage, waiting. Sometimes I thought I caught the faintest trace of her scent, clinging to the fabric of the seats—or perhaps to memory itself.

Maybe she had been there minutes before.

Or maybe I only imagined it.