Nothing prepares you for winter's freezing embrace.
My high-school days in that bustling metropolis of a desert city, blessed and cursed by the scorching heat of a year-round summer sun, now feel forever gone. Instead, I find myself here, shivering as I await the grumbling, low hum, of the approaching train, its metallic tracks squealing in protest as it emerges from the dark tunnel beyond.
Welcome to Denfert-Rochereau, metro line six towards Charles de Gaulle - Étoile. Of course, it's Friday evening; the platform is absolutely filled to the brim with shuffling bodies. Where do they go? What do they do? Why on earth must they feel the need to squeeze between me and "the great yellow safety barrier of suffering", leaving barely a gap for the faintest of breaths? I ask myself these questions each and every time: my disappointment never wanes.
Finally, I can hear it coming, just a few minutes too late. I bid my goodbyes to the platform, the passing faces, the overpowering stench of urine permeating every nook and cranny of the station which I thankfully need not bear much longer. Just a few more seconds and - a train, with eternal elegance and grace, deliberately pulls into the platform opposite mine. It's having an effect on me; yes, I seem to be feeling the bitter cold slightly less; it is only natural, I suppose, my blood is boiling after all.
Everything here is sickening: the walls are stained by grime and mould left to grow and fester, the floor a mosaic of discarded gum and careless spills. Above me flickers a bright fluorescent light, giving everything in sight a sickly glow and leaving nothing to the dark. Everyone is shut down, trapped in their conversations, their commutes, their tiny, little lives. Can't they see? We are all in a state of transience, our faces blurring together, forgetful and unremarkable. How many have stood here like us, just waiting for time to wash over them, passing like a breathless wind.
My phone buzzes - Julia, checking on my progress to the cinema in Montparnasse. I fumble with frozen fingers, cursing the inconvenience of gloves. Four minutes on the train, she says, as if that makes up for the soul-crushing hour and a half it took to reach this point. I massage my furrowed brow, imagining how I must appear to others - an infuriated, perhaps maniacal, odd, and pessimistic young woman.
In a few hours, I'll travel all the way back, in the silent dark, alone, on a hissing train. The endless, aimless commute, to what end? I question the wisdom of this outing, knowing that tomorrow marks the beginning of another weekend imprisoned by coursework. My professor is a brilliant and eccentric man, but I loathe, with all the essence of my being, the futile work he tortures me with. If only I could find a shred of utility to it, however remote, I would welcome it with open arms. Instead, I am doomed to toss my energy into a forever silent void.
Looking upwards to the ceiling, I expire all the air from my lungs. Everything feels heavy. I have not walked into the gates of adulthood blindly. In fact, I pride myself on being realistic, so how could I have been so blindsided? I can't pinpoint any specific event that took me from this feeling of being the master of my fate, on top of the world, to being the one who carries the weight of it on their back - a sort of Atlas.
The cold air brought by the onset of the train bites my skin and cuts my thoughts short. Its doors open, and passengers pour out like a stream. I’m squished on all fronts by fellow travellers, each pushing through until the merciless buzz of departure slices the mob in half. Inside, we’re packed like sardines in a can; even the mildest of stumbles can set our perilous equilibrium in shambles. The air is particularly stale, and the lack of space unnerving.
Leaving nothing to chance, I squirm my way into the cabin and find myself near the center pole, facing the door. I try to catch a glimpse of my reflection in the glass but instead meet the gaze of a tall man about my age, wearing a navy puffer jacket. I catch his eye, and for a fleeting second, the world has been put on pause. He's looking at me - no, rather through me, as if he's inspecting what lies beneath the surface. It's subtle, almost imperceptible, but I notice it; the corner of his lips curling upwards into a covert grin. Blood rushes to my cheeks, flooding my head until its heaviness weighs down on me like a brick. Is my rationality running amok and imagination playing cruel games?
I feel completely ridiculous, totally unreasonable, but I sneak another glance anyway. His eyes are dark and hooded, accompanied by prominent and well-defined facial features. With his sharp and distinctive Greek nose, high cheekbones, and olive skin, it feels as though all of him is of elegant design. More than attractive, there's something in his gaze, his stature, his way of holding himself. He has character, and it draws me in like no one before.
Questions, each one more curious than the next, engulf my mind: Who is he? Is he studying at university? I try to paint a picture of him, drinking in every detail of his being that my eyes can see. Is he popular? I certainly imagine him so, surrounded by admiring friends as the one they all look up to, the one who knits them together. A wire hangs from his ear, likely belonging to a set of earphones. I wonder about his taste in music, and if there is anything we share?
The train slows at Raspail. A few passengers disembark but he remains. We're being pushed even further into the back to accommodate a new horde of people, but I don't even notice; I am in another world now - the world of dreams.
I imagine us, meeting on the terrace of a buzzing French café in the Latin quarter. He's sitting, alone, espresso on the table with some book in his hands. The city is vibrant today and the streets hum a melody full of life and song. I appear, about to ask the waiter for a spot when our eyes meet and we're made aware of each others' presence, our very existences aligned in this incomprehensibly vast world. Before I can even mutter a single syllable, the waiter waves me away, barking "Il n'y a pas de place ici!". Frustrated, I turn on my heels, noticing a free chair perched next to the young man. "Excusez-moi", I ask, "puis-je m'asseoir ici ?" He laughs at my archaic formality, inviting me to sit down.
We talk for hours that slip away like minutes, sharing our stories and dreams that seem to bridge the gap between our separate worlds. He tells me about his studies, relationships and life, and I tell him mine. We become each others' trusted confidant, making light about our laments of life and its shortcomings. Together, the weight of the world, our responsibilities and commitments, feels far lighter on the shoulders. As the Parisian dusk settles on the skyline, we depart, side by side, from the café, quietly hoping that the sun will set its gaze on us for all of time.
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His arm is warm around my neck as we tour the Jardin du Luxembourg, our conversations circling the basin over and over as time halts just for us. The sounds of children, running rampant with their sticks, trying to push their rented toy boats off the edge, echo throughout the garden. Our bodies radiate heat; even the cold dares not approach us. As we leave, the guitarist, who gave us the gift of song, smiles at us tenderly. Our thanks are left as two coins, carefully placed side-by-side within the safety of his trunk.
I blink, the daydream fading like mist in sunlight. What a fool I am, clinging to some fantasy of a chance encounter with a man whose voice is as much a mystery as the depths of the ocean and more distant than the stars in the sky. I must focus on something, anything else. My eyes flutter to the oddly-shaped hat the monsieur to my left is wearing—it’s unbelievably unflattering—to the garish socks the Madame to my right has on. All around me are faces of people whose names I will never know, whose lives I will never touch, and whose souls I will never see. All we share is this one thing that binds us to this present, the immediate: metro line number six. Like all others, this moment is fleeting, and it too, soon, shall pass.
We're grinding to a halt at Edgar Quinet. A few passengers, including the man with the unflattering hat, return to a world on solid ground, while a wave of new travellers come aboard. He remains. Montparnasse-Bienvenüe is just one short stop away...
I catch him glancing at me again, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. My heart races. A wild hope takes root within me; perhaps he feels it, this inexplicable connection. I wish we could break this monotonous silence between us. Should I say something? Anything? The words lodge in my throat. I wouldn’t even know where to begin — what does one say to a stranger on a train?
No, I can’t find the words. He’s simply out of reach. If the circumstances had been different, less crowded, then perhaps. There are simply too many eyes and ears, and if everything was a grand delusion all along, there would be nowhere to run to. Unless I jump from this moving train, my escape routes are limited.
I take a deep breath. There's something in the air today. Something in his smile and the way he gazes at me - it all makes me want to be brave. Just this once. I could do it. I will do it. My heart is pounding in my chest - it's the only thing I can hear. I desperately try to formulate a simple sequence of words, a phrase impossible to stutter and easy to pronounce. "Désolé, qu'écoutez-vous ?" or perhaps...
My fingers clench the metal pole tightly, sending a numbing sensation throughout my arm. This is it. It's now or never. Just do it! I'm trembling, barely able to open my mouth. The words form on the tip of my tongue-
"La prochaine station est", the automated voice announces, "Montparnasse-Bienvenüe".
I have already lost.
The train is lurching to a stop and passengers are already shuffling in anticipation to disembark. How can it have ended without a true beginning? He's still standing there, unperturbed. This is clearly not his stop, but it is mine.
Hissing, the doors slide open. I join the crowd, pushing through to the other side. My feet, having made contact with the platform, turn around one last time with the hope of catching a final glimpse of the stranger who completely enamoured me. His eyes meet mine for a fleeting moment, unreadable.
The doors slam shut and the train hurries on. My eyes trail it as it passes by, disappearing into the tunnel beyond, forever.
***
Julia's face is buried in her hands as we walk out of the tiny cinema. She sighs, twisting her head up to look at me.
"C'était quoi ça... Ce truc qu'on vient de voir..."
"Vraiment aucune idée," I reply, equally complaining about the awful, two-hour long piece of junk we just watched, "c'était tellement nul."
"Bon, tant pis," she replies, briefly glancing at her watch, "Montparnasse du coup?"
We begin our short walk to the metro station. Julia is hounding me with all sorts of questions. I've only known her for about six months, which is the total time I have spent so far living in my native country. We met through an inter-university sports tournament that was organised at the start of the year; she was playing basketball for her Parisian university, and I was representing mine in athletics. She is very sweet and outgoing - we get along quite well.
"Ça va ? Tu as l'air un peu triste..."
I laugh, maybe a little too much. Her words are making me uncomfortable. Does she think I look sad? I can't believe she thinks that; I'm not 'sad'. I'm certainly not 'happy' all the time, but who is? We humans are, fundamentally, ephemeral, so why would I bother giving justification to feelings that, eventually, will simply disappear? Dissecting these fleeting emotions is as futile as trying to catch smoke in a temperamental gust of wind.
Montparnasse is up ahead. We both come to a stop and I face her, showing her a warm smile.
"Pas du tout !" I tell her, washing away any discomfort in the air. We bid each other our goodbyes and I make my way inside the station. It's late, the city is fast asleep already. The station is unrecognisable from a couple hours ago. All the space is left to me and my thoughts.
Two minutes. That's fine, I'll wander about aimlessly until then.
It's far colder than before. Every breath I take leaves a frosty mist hanging in the air. I experiment with this a bit, waving it around with my hand. Eventually, it's too cold even for that. I resort to rubbing my hands together, breathing into them in an attempt to keep the cold at bay.
My train to another world pulls in. It's one of the old ones, mint green with those metal handles that you have to lift yourself to open the doors. A bit archaic, but I like it. It's like a train from some other place and time. I read recently that the state railway company is planning to replace these over the course of the next two years; it breaks my heart a little.
On board, it's spacious. There is only one other person in the cabin, and they are busily absorbed by whatever it is playing on their phone. It's only a very short ride; I've already spent much of today seated, so leaning against the wall of the cabin will certainly feel far better for my legs.
I close my eyes, searching for some reprieve from this relentless tedium. For a while, I succeed in thinking of nothing. My failure comes crawling soon as images of him enter my mind. In the blackness of the void, I see him there, right ahead of me between the pole and the glass doors. His face is eternally serene, calmed by the melodies playing into his ears. We are on a train to nowhere in particular. There is no sun or moon to tell us the time of day - or night. Eternally, we are fated to remain here, in this place where I steal glances, and perhaps, him too. The space between us never giving in an inch.
Eventually, the doors open and I walk out. When I turn around, it's already too late.
My eyes trail on the train as it passes me by, taking with it everything that was and could have been. The cold presses in, extinguishing every ember, turning everything to memory and dust.