When Love Was Just a Glance Away

When Love Was Just a Glance Away
By Lila Hart

I first saw him on the downtown train.

Not in the dramatic, slow-motion way the movies show, but in a quiet, ordinary moment—the kind that doesn’t shout until it lingers. I had been staring at my phone, reading an email I didn’t want to answer, when I felt it—that sense you’re being watched, or maybe simply seen.

I looked up. And there he was.

He wore a navy blue coat, fingers curled around a book I’d read twice: The History of Love. I remember thinking his hands looked like they held stories. His eyes—soft brown, a little sad—met mine for a heartbeat longer than normal.

Then the train lurched, and he looked away.

That should’ve been the end of it. A passing moment, like rain on windows or forgotten melodies. But something about him stayed with me. That glance felt different. Not romantic, not intense. Just... true.

I saw him again a week later. Same train. Different book.

He stood a few feet away, reading Norwegian Wood. I smiled to myself. He had good taste. This time, he noticed me first.

A slight nod. A curve at the corner of his mouth. Recognition. It made my stomach flip in that teenage way I hadn’t felt in years.

For the next month, we kept meeting like that—always on Thursdays, always around 5:30, always on the downtown line. We never spoke, never exchanged names or numbers. Just glances, smiles, nods. A language built from silence and timing.

Once, I brought a book I hoped he’d notice. The Little Prince. I caught his eyes widen when he saw it. The next week, he was holding The Bell Jar. We were talking through titles, telling stories through pages.

One day, he wasn’t there.

I waited. The train came and went. So did the next one. I told myself he was just running late, that maybe he had an appointment or took a cab for once.

But he didn’t show up that Thursday. Or the one after.

Weeks passed. Life resumed. I told myself it was nothing. We hadn’t spoken. I didn’t even know his name.

But my chest ached every time the train pulled in without him

. Then, three months later, there he was.

Standing on the platform, holding The Little Prince.

This time, I didn’t wait.

I walked right up to him, heart pounding.

“You’re back,” I said.

He smiled like he’d been waiting for me to ask. “I went home. My mom got sick. I stayed longer than I planned.”

I nodded, unsure what to say next.

“I thought about you,” he said gently. “Every Thursday.”

I laughed—soft, nervous, relieved. “I didn’t even know your name.”

“It’s Theo,” he said. “And you?”

“Maya.”

We shook hands like strangers, though we’d memorized each other’s glances.

We rode the train together that night, seated side by side, quietly reading. At one point, our shoulders touched. He didn’t move. Neither did I.

From then on, we met on purpose. Trains turned into coffees, coffees into long walks, and long walks into slow mornings where silence still spoke volumes.

One night, a year later, as rain tapped gently on our apartment window, I asked him, “When did you know?”

“That day you looked up,” he said. “The first time. You didn’t smile right away. You just looked—really looked. And I hadn’t felt that seen in a long time.”

I leaned against him. “I didn’t think a glance could carry so much.”

“Some do,” he whispered. “Some glances are beginnings in disguise.”

Because love, real love, doesn’t always announce itself.
Sometimes, it sits across from you on a train.
Sometimes, it waits patiently through silence and missed connections.
Sometimes, it’s just a glance away—waiting for the moment you finally look back.