We Were Strangers on a Train—Now We're Married

I’ve always believed in missed trains, not soulmates.

Growing up, I thought love was complicated, reserved for movie scripts or people with fewer trust issues. I never imagined I’d meet the love of my life sitting on a train heading nowhere special.

But that’s exactly what happened.

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It was a regular Tuesday.

The kind of day where you don’t expect your life to change.

I was traveling from Lahore to Islamabad, clutching my bag of books and snacks, trying to avoid eye contact with the overly talkative uncles on board. The train was late, the weather was hot, and I was already in a mood.

Then, he asked if the seat beside me was taken.

“No,” I said flatly, not even looking up.

He chuckled. “Great. I was hoping for the window, but this’ll do.”

Something about his voice made me glance over. He had a calm presence—like someone who didn’t rush anything in life. I couldn’t place his age, maybe late twenties. Clean haircut, worn-out leather watch, and a notebook in his hand.

He didn’t pull out a phone or headphones like most people.

He opened his notebook and started writing.

That’s what caught me.

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I kept peeking.

He noticed, of course.

“You’re curious,” he said, smiling.

I was embarrassed. “I’m not nosy, just... curious about what people write in notebooks.”

He held it up. “Poetry. Or at least my attempt at it.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Can I read one?”

He laughed. “Only if you read it out loud.”

That’s how it started.

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We talked the entire ride. About poetry, music, cities, pain, favorite books, failed relationships, chai recipes. He said his name was Daniyal, and he worked in advertising but hated everything about corporate life. I told him I was in between writing gigs and trying not to lose myself in deadlines.

We didn't flirt.

We just connected.

No trying. No pretending. Just flow.

At one point, he said, “You know when a conversation feels like breathing? This is one of those.”

I smiled, looked out the window, and realized I hadn’t checked my phone in over an hour.

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The train slowed as we approached the station.

I felt panic.

I didn’t want it to end.

I didn’t know this man, but it felt like I did. Like maybe, in some other life, we sat on trains like this every day.

He stood up, stretched, and looked at me.

“I’m really glad I didn’t get the window seat.”

I laughed softly. “Yeah… me too.”

We walked off the train together, side by side. Still talking.

But life was waiting.

Cabs, deadlines, work, family.

He paused before leaving. “Can I see you again?”

I hesitated—half out of fear, half out of disbelief that something so ordinary could become something more.

“Only if you bring the notebook.”

He grinned.

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That was four years ago.

We got married in a small ceremony during spring. Nothing fancy—just friends, family, and a hand-written poem he read instead of vows. Yes, the same notebook.

The first page still has the poem I read out loud that day on the train.

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People always ask us, “How did you know it was love?”

I never have the perfect answer.

But I think love is less about fireworks and more about quiet moments that feel full. It’s when a stranger sits beside you, and suddenly the world becomes less heavy. When you stop checking the time because you don’t want the moment to end.

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Fate is strange.

Sometimes, it makes you miss flights, ruin plans, delay trains.

But maybe that’s how it brings people together too—through interruptions.

I almost didn’t get on that train.

He almost sat somewhere else.

But we did.

And now we write our story together.

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Author’s Note:

Some rides feel temporary—until they take you exactly where you're meant to be.

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