Time on the subway

The train slides through a tunnel the color of pencil shavings, the car mostly mine—a row of orange seats, a limp poster, the map buzzing softly like it remembers other routes. It’s 2 a.m., the hour when the city lowers its voice. My reflection rides opposite: older than I feel, steadier than I admit. The doors breathe and seal.

“Next stop: Wasn’t-What-You-Planned,” the speaker says, calm as an usher.

“That’s not on the map,” I say, not sure if I’m talking to the PA or the dark.

“Most important stops aren’t printed,” the voice answers. It sounds like someone who doesn’t hurry even when everything else does.

I rub a sleep line from my cheek. “I was aiming for Two-Stations-Back.”

“Closed for renovations,” the voice says. “Forward access only.”

“Convenient.”

“Honest.”

The car slows. We open onto a platform I don’t recognize—tiles nicked at the corners, a paper cup tracing slow circles like it’s teaching itself patience. No one gets on. No one leaves. Night air slips in with a mineral bite, then the doors come together again and we move.

“I keep replaying choices,” I tell the window. “If I had turned left, called sooner, stayed longer—”

“You’re mixing travel with rehearsal,” the voice says. “Pick one.”

“I want certainty.”

“I offer rhythm.”

“That’s not the same.”

“It’s steadier.”

We swing through a stretch of strobing light and my face brightens and dims, a metronome of years. I think about how long I’ve been holding doors open for imaginary latecomers, apologizing to strangers who don’t exist.

“I feel like I’ve been propping things open for years,” I say.

“You have,” the voice says. “You’re polite. It’s exhausting.”

“What if I let them close and it’s wrong?”

“Then you’ll learn something precise.”

“And if I wait?”

“You’ll learn something vague.”

The marquee blinks awake: TRANSFER AVAILABLE — LET-IT-GO (LOCAL) / TRY-AGAIN (EXPRESS)

“Try-Again sounds like breaking something,” I say.

“It sounds like beginning from where you actually are.”

I watch the tunnel smear into charcoal. “I miss who I used to be.”

“Visit,” the voice says, gentle. “Don’t move in.”

“How?”

“Keep souvenirs, not leases.”

I slide to the end of the bench and set my palm on cool metal, lining my breath up with the soft click of track joints. The rhythm finds me like a hand on my back.

“I want the story to make sense,” I say.

“Make meaning,” the voice answers. “Sense is a fair-weather friend.”

I huff a laugh. “You talk like a mediator.”

“I prefer agreements that survive Tuesdays.”

“What do you want from me right now?”

“A choice made at the speed of truth, not fear.”

“And if my truth changes?”

“Excellent. Update the choice.”

We drift into another station, long and empty, a dare written in concrete. The doors open. Water runs somewhere hidden; a draft unspools along the platform and tugs at the hem of my jacket.

“What if I miss what’s meant for me?” The question leaves me before I can dress it up.

“What’s meant for you can stand being met twice,” the voice says.

“That feels generous.”

“I’m not generous,” it says without heat. “I’m consistent. You supply the courage.”

I stand. My reflection rises with me—older, yes, but balanced, like a glass set down squarely on a table. The gap looks small until fear speaks up and makes it loud.

“Say it plainly,” I tell the air. “What should I do?”

“Name what matters out loud,” the voice says. “Step where that name points. Keep walking when you doubt it. Check again at the next light.”

“And the versions of me I liked?”

“Let them ride along as witnesses,” it says. “Not drivers.”

The car takes a breath I feel in my ribs. The platform waits. A tiny piece of litter skates and settles. Somewhere down the tunnel, a faint hum thickens—headlights becoming a pin becoming a promise.

“Okay,” I say. “I’ll miss a stop on purpose.”

“Good practice.”

“Don’t clap.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. Mind the gap,” the voice adds, soft as a hand on a shoulder. “Then mind your life.”

I cross. It isn’t heroic—just a scuffed sole, a shift of weight, the old ache of hesitating given less power than the new one of moving. The doors close with a polite seal that sounds like certainty pretending to be ordinary. The train leaves without offense, only momentum, and I’m left on a fresh stretch of platform with the same old shoes.

When I breathe, the air tastes like wet stone and electricity. The sign says the express is five minutes away. I can live with that. I can live with a lot.

A presence lingers beside me the way a steady drumbeat lingers under melody. It isn’t a person; it isn’t not. If I spoke, I know it would answer.

“When the express arrives,” it says, as if I asked, “choose a car. If you’re unsure, choose any. Movement is the teacher.”

“And you?” I say.

“I’ll be wherever the second hand meets the minute. Call when you forget your courage. I answer on the first ring.”

“What’s this station called?” The tunnel hum hums deeper, a throat clearing before a note.

“Now,” the voice says.

I touch the folded map in my pocket—creases worn white from being opened to the same old turns—and let it go. The new one is shorter: here, now, forward. Headlights bloom in the distance, widening into a path. I count four in and four out, and the rhythm holds. The rest can be decided from here.