The compartment was almost empty, save for him and a woman sitting a few rows ahead. Sunlight streamed through the window, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air. He couldn’t help but steal glances at her. Her hair, the color of dark honey, cascaded down her back. She was sketching in a small notebook, her brow creased in concentration.
He imagined striking up a conversation, asking her about her art, her life. But something held him back – a mixture of shyness and fear of intrusion. He remained silent, lost in his own world of what-ifs.
When the train reached her stop, she closed her notebook, stood, and walked past him. As she did, their eyes met. A flicker of something – recognition, perhaps, or even a hint of sadness – passed between them. Then she was gone, leaving him with a profound sense of loss for a connection that never was.
