People I see on the subway.

She could have been any age, but I want to say that she was my age. Her Chuck Taylors made her unremarkable at worst, typical at best. But her cherry-patterned backpack that she hugged to her chest while she sat in the seat with her head down caught the curiosity. Her short pig tails curled up to border her face not unlike an antique picture frame decorating a valuable piece of art. As indication of her separation from this dirty world full of unpleasant things, her ear phones sang sweet nothings to her, maybe some soft bossa nova, Mozart. Nothing too loud. Her eyes batted slowly, as if she was taking her time to enjoy the pleasure that came with being able to open and close your eyes at the world at your own leisure. She put her head down and rested her chin on her bag as the two men next to her chuckled at some obscene joke that disappeared into the frigid air as soon as the doors opened at the next stop. As her eyes opened and closed with a natural, timely rhythm, she listened for something that I couldn’t hear in a song that was maybe some soft bossa nova or Mozart. Nothing too loud.

This guy sat right in front of me. His gray, wool cap pulled over his ears blended into his dull but neatly trimmed facial hair. His scarf snugly peeked out of his jacket’s lapel, accompanying his neck in sheer comfort on this cold January day. With his fingers peeking out of his fingerless mittens, he placed his hands over his knees so delicately that I was afraid that a sudden stop of the train would make him break into a million pieces and fall to the ground like marbles. I think it would’ve made a lot of beautiful noise. I wanted to be discreet because I hate it when people look at me on the subway. But when I shifted my eyes to his feline face, an invisible pair of hands took my chest and twisted it as if it needed to be wrung out. Staring across the cart at the bottom of my feet, he was saying so much without moving his mouth. I had no idea what he was mourning. I couldn’t be sure that he was mourning, even. The eyes of glass told me nothing, but that was OK, because I already knew. When the train stopped at Central, he rose from his seat without looking at anything in particular. The thoughts in his head were not directed at anything particular in the train, so of course there would be no reason to acknowledge anything. As his nondescript leather satchel passed me from my perspective, brushing against his thin hip as he glided off toward somewhere I could never visit, a piece of me tucked itself into his pocket. He will take me out whenever he feels like it. He most likely never will.

A young couple got on the train at Park Street. All bundled up for the onslaught of winter, they were not disgusting in the slightest. They mixed unaccented English with snippets of Mandarin. She was stylish and he was stylish. They held onto the pole for support as the train shuttled down the tunnel at an unremarkable speed. The general murmur of the train combined with passenger conversation hid the words they exchanged, but that wasn’t important. At some point, he bursted out laughing when she said something witty, probably something that made him fall even deeper in love with her. Their jackets made a funny swishing, shuffling sound as they grasped onto each other, not for dear life, but for life, dear.

(via myumbrellaiswet)

I couldn’t  help but reblog Qichen’s observations from her subway seat. Not even a photograph could capture the essence of these people as well as this fastidious writing. I love it.