A Seat by the Window

I met her on the 8:05 train to the city.

It wasn’t a cinematic moment. No sunlight streaming through her hair, no instant symphony playing in my head. She was just… there. Sitting by the window, reading a dog-eared paperback.

I took the aisle seat next to her because all the others were full.

She didn’t look up.

The train jerked forward, and I caught a faint scent of coffee and rain on her coat. She turned a page, and I noticed her nails short, unpainted, clean.

By the third station, I’d built a whole story in my head: she was a writer, running away from a broken heart, heading to the city to start over. I didn’t know if any of it was true, but it made me want to talk to her.

The problem was, I’m terrible at starting conversations.

So, I waited for fate to give me an opening.

It happened at station four. The train lurched harder than usual, and her book slipped from her lap. I caught it before it hit the floor.

She smiled. “Thanks.”

Her voice was softer than I expected.

“No problem,” I said, holding out the book. The Secret History. I’d read it years ago.

“It’s one of my favorites,” I said.

Her eyes brightened. “Really? I’ve read it three times.”

That was the start. We talked about books all the way to the city. I learned her name was Maya, she worked at an art gallery, and she hated coffee but loved the smell of it.

Over the next few weeks, the 8:05 became our ritual. Sometimes we talked the whole way. Other times, we just sat in comfortable silence, her reading, me staring out the window at the blur of fields and suburbs.

One morning, I almost missed the train, and when I finally collapsed into the seat beside her, she said, “I thought I’d have to save the seat for you.”

It was such a small thing, but it warmed me all the way to the city.

Winter came early that year. One morning, the windows were fogged over, and she drew little hearts on the glass absentmindedly while we talked about our favorite childhood memories.

“Snow days,” she said. “Hot chocolate and wet socks.”

“Mine was going to the movies with my dad,” I said. “Even if the film was bad, we’d still get popcorn and laugh about it later.”

She smiled, and there was something in her eyes I couldn’t quite place.

By December, I was certain I was falling for her.

I had a plan: the last workday before Christmas, I’d ask her out. Just coffee, I told myself, though I secretly hoped it would turn into something more.

The morning came, cold and sharp. The train was crowded, but I still found her same seat, same smile.

I was halfway through rehearsing my line when she said, “I won’t be on this train in the new year.”

The words landed like ice in my stomach.

She explained quickly she’d been offered a job in another city. A promotion. She’d be moving in two weeks.

I nodded, smiled, told her I was happy for her. Inside, I felt the train speeding toward a station I didn’t want to reach.

Her last day came too soon. The train ride was quieter than usual. We talked about nothing weather, traffic, the Christmas lights in the city both of us pretending the moment wasn’t slipping away.

At the station, she turned to me and said, “Thank you for making my mornings better.”

I wanted to say Don’t go. I wanted to tell her that the 8:05 would never be the same without her.

Instead, I said, “You too.”

She smiled, then reached into her bag and pulled out her copy of The Secret History. She pressed it into my hands. “So you don’t forget me.”

Before I could say anything, she was gone, swallowed by the crowd.

It’s been three years.

I still take the 8:05. I’ve met new people, read new books, but sometimes, when the train jerks and someone’s book slips, I think of Maya.

Her copy of The Secret History sits on my shelf. I haven’t opened it since she left. Not because I don’t want to read it again, but because every time I see it, I remember those mornings coffee and rain, books and fogged windows, and the girl who made the commute feel like something worth waking up for.