You stood there,
half in the light, half in the moment,
the kind of presence that turns seconds into something else.
Not fate—too grand. Not coincidence—too small.
Just a blink of the universe winking at itself.

The train doors slid open,
a rush of wind, the smell of rain and metal,
and for a moment, the city folded around us,
wrapped us up in its noise, its indifference,
but you—
you looked at me like you had something to say.

Maybe in another life,
I would have asked your name,
let it linger on my tongue 
like the aftertaste of aged whisky,
something bold, something worth remembering.
Maybe you would have laughed at my bad jokes,
traced circles on my palm,
told me your favorite song and let me make it ours.

I wonder if your mind held me for a second longer
than it should have, 
if my face turned into a half-memory
by the time you reached the next stop.
If later, while pouring your coffee or folding your sheets,
a shadow of me flickered behind your ribs—
not quite longing, but something near it.

The city doesn’t keep records of moments like this.
The streets swallow them whole,
scatter them like loose change in a stranger’s pocket.
But I’ll keep this one, 
tuck it somewhere between
the books I never finished 
and the dreams that ended too soon.

Because maybe love isn’t always a story.
Maybe sometimes it’s just a feeling
that hangs in the air for a second too long
before the doors close,
before the train moves on,
and it slips away,
not lost, not found, just passing through.