The Girl on the Train.
She gets on the train and takes her jacket off. She searches her backpack and produces a notebook out of it. While she leafs through it, postcards and papers spring out from the pages. She is holding a pen, but she is not writing. She is reading. I wonder what music her round black headphones are playing in her ears, and whether it reflects her feelings.
She lingers on a page and her eyes don’t look up for a while. Something must have hit her inside, because her eyes, already pink with eye-shadow, grow redder. She stares at the handwriting, just a couple of lines of blue ink. No tears fall from her eyes, and yet she seems moved. I am curious about the content of the page and try to read it, but I can’t make out the letters. She never looks around, only at her notebook.
An old lady asks if she can sit next to her and she is pulled out of the twirling thoughts in her head. She nods, producing a weak smile. She grabs her black leather backpack and places it on her lap, then she turns her gaze to the window. Trees and supermarkets alternate behind the rails/platforms, but she is not focused on the landscape. Her eyebrows curl up and create a wrinkle on her forehead. She looks down again and a lock of hair falls on her green eyes and covers her face, but she doesn’t move it. Her hair is short, too short to reach her ear and remain behind it, and she likes it. She likes to let it fall and shield her emotions before people can grasp them. The shadow behind it is comfortable and it suits her.
As we get closer to my stop, I close my notebook and put it away, together with my pen, and she does the same. Many people are getting off the train. As usual, I wait for the corridor to be free before getting up from my seat, so I see her leaving. She hurriedly wraps her black scarf around her neck, puts her jacket back on and kindly asks the lady to let her pass. She walks away and I lose her in the crowd.