I step in at N 52nd Street Station.
The fluorescent lights flicker, then settle into a steady hum, casting pale halos on the passengers already inside. The air is thick with July dampness and the clatter of shoes against concrete as the doors sigh open– exhaling bodies into the station, inhaling the new ones. We step inside.
By some strange luck, I find myself in a spot near the door, just enough space to stretch my legs without bumping anyone. My bare thighs are sticky with the warm summer rain, and they cling to the tangerine plastic as I sink deeper into my seat. I press my forehead against the grimy glass and watch the station fracture into streaks of black and silver—an eruption of restlessness before we’ve even left the station.
My phone is warm and wet in my palm; worn from being checked too many times, heavy with the weight of an answer that isn’t coming.
“I just needed you to show up.”
Read 5:52 PM.
The train lurches forward, metal groaning against metal. Across from me, a man cradles a stirring child; their eyes closed, bodies swaying in quiet tandem with the train. Without opening his eyes, the man shifts his grip, rubbing slow, instinctive circles on his son’s back as a steady “shhhhh” escapes him, soft and rhythmic. The child sinks deeper into the warmth of the embrace, going still, wrapped up in the hum of motion and readily available intimacy embrace.
“Annnnnnd, this is 48th Street”
Unsettled by their intimacy, I turn back to the window. Droplets slip from my damp hair, landing softly against the glass. They gather, then slide down in uneven paths, tracing fleeting patterns before vanishing into the shallow puddles on the floor. Outside, gray streaks blur the surface, the city dissolving into smears of light and shadow. The streets don’t pause, the lights never flicker out; there is no quiet, only humming.
“Next stop, 34th Street.”
The train shudders, a collective breath as we move deeper into the tunnels. The old woman beside me fumbles with a plastic container. Without thinking, the man next to her—hood pulled low, face unreadable—pops the lid off and hands it back. She pats his hand in thanks. He nods.
The doors slide open at 34th Street. There’s no fanfare, no great announcement, just the gentle shift of bodies as a plaid-clad woman steps in, holding a bouquet. The petals are crushed, a little bruised, but they’re bright against the gray of the train. She catches me looking and offers an hesitant explanation;
“Someone left them on the bench,” she says, shrugging her shoulders.
I give her a reserved nod of acknowledgement, but my gaze lingers. The bouquet rests awkwardly in the crook of her arm, fingertips absentmindedly brushing buttery petals caught between preservation and decay. Someone left them behind. Maybe by accident, maybe on purpose. Either way, they’re here now, carried by someone who never meant to take them, yet holds them anyway.
The train lurches forward, and the paper-thin pink quivers, fragile but still intact. I can feel it clearly now: all of us, swaying in unison, held tenderly by the hum of the tracks.
“Ladies and gentlemen, next stop, 28th Street.”
I rise with the others; we are a congregation of strangers bound together not by God, but by certainty of forward motion. The doors exhale us, and the ache in my chest softens.
The train keeps going.