Brief Transit

A woman on the northbound train reads with her finger, slowly, touching each word as though remembering something lost in the morning's haste. The fluorescent light catches her collar— a small rebellion of color.

The doors seal shut with a whisper, and we are suspended between stations, between the lives we're leaving and the ones we rush toward. Her eyes flicker up, meet nothing, return to the page.

The platform slides away. We collect strangers like coins, each with the weight of an entire universe folded into their shoulders. I think of all the stories stored in this metal tube hurtling forward.

She turns a page— the sound carries like approval, like permission to continue breathing in this small shared space where no one asks for anything but a little room.