The S train on 42nd Street runs on the shortest subway line, connecting only two stops. On any given day, 100,000 people take the S, and on Dec. 26, 2018, I was one of them.
There is something inherently romantic about a packed subway car. We both reach for the pole, my fingers accidentally wrapping around yours. I jerk my hand away and stare at my boots, avoiding your gaze, but you see me fight back a smile. As the shuttle suddenly stops, I lose my balance and launch into your arms. You laugh it off, we scuffle out at Grand Central Terminal, running up and down the stairs to catch the S back to Times Square.
Your nose is practically touching mine once we cram ourselves into the sea of holiday tourists. Not a free pole in sight, I’m stuck holding onto your arm. I’m a nervous wreck, desperate to find the right words to say to you. I don’t know you yet. We’re two strangers, surrounded by 99,998 other strangers, which isn’t very different from every other day, where I’m surrounded by 99,999 strangers. But today, for some reason, I want nothing more than to make you smile.
After half an hour shuttling back and forth, I must’ve finally strung the right words together. I’d just turned fourteen, and here I am, holding your hand, strolling through Morningside Heights. I’m so excited—maybe today I’ll have my first kiss. We sit on a bench, finishing up the oiliest $2 slices Koronet has to offer. The sun’s setting, turning the city my favorite shade of dusky blue. You humor me with your plans to travel out of state and the kindest compliments I’d ever received and my laughter steams up the freezing air. My face hurts so much from smiling. Our hands are almost frostbitten, but you are the warmest person in the world.
The S train on 42nd Street runs completely underground, completing its journey in just ninety seconds.
I never got that first kiss. I’ve always been so, so ashamed of myself, and so, so scared of love. Maybe it’s because of the dogma drilled into my head that loving was no less sinful than adultery. Or the knowledge of my grating, off–putting, blunt personality. Regardless, I bury my desires deep. I hide it where no one can see it, where no one can point and laugh at me for dreaming of love. Underground, perhaps. I feel a screaming, suffocating urge to lean in and bridge the remaining distance between us, but I was so, so afraid. Without the anonymity of the subway and its screeches softening my abrasiveness, how could anyone tolerate me? I bite my tongue, swallow my love; it leaves a lump in my throat.
And just like that, the train has already left the station.
Grand Central and Times Square are the two busiest stations in the city. The shuttle we so briefly shared had 15 or so transfer lines through the two stations. We part ways. I ride more lines, I make more transfers, and I meet more people. I shared a few months with my then best friend, immediately blowing up our friend group when he dumped me the next Valentine’s Day. I finally caught the eye of the upperclassman in my debate club, but that too exploded, even more quickly and horribly. I found a longer–term love, finally, that lasted through half of college, but that too had come to an end.
I’d like to think that during these years filled with rides and transfers I’ve unlearned that shame, but maybe it’s just evolved. That first kiss has come and gone, along with many other milestones, but that sinking feeling persists: The unshakeable conviction that no matter the accolades I acquire or successful attempts at self–improvement, I will be alone in the end. That there is some invisible, intrinsic defect I’ll never overcome, and that once those kind to me notice it, they’ll flee from me. That the friendships and love are fleeting and finite, and every former friend or lover is a sign of failure. I’m still so, so ashamed of myself and so, so scared of rejection. So I keep hiding.
The 7 train is the only other train that connects Grand Central and Times Square, but it takes you a little further, with twenty additional stops. I’ve always loved the 7 train. As the train leaves Manhattan and enters Queens, it finally rises above ground. The sun’s setting, filling the car with blinding, orange light.
Seven years later and seven stops away, I see you again. We share a hug. You’re so much taller than I remember. We squeeze into an N train, and once again I am forced to hold onto you for stability. It’s obvious to you that I’m just as nervous as I was all those years ago. I’m so, so afraid that this time you’ll recognize me for the fraud that I am. Maybe you’d realize all this time later that I’m still crass and unusual. Seven years later, seven stops away, and the apprehension’s all the same.
It’s cold in Astoria. I mess up our orders and I laugh it off, but you can tell I’m beating myself up about it. But, eventually, the jitters go away, and it’s hard to believe any time has passed. You aren’t ashamed of me. Between stories about my exes, your girlfriend, and our graduate school plans, you recall our first date in such vivid detail. I’m elated—and it hits me, after all those years, that maybe I’m not doomed. That despite my failed pursuits of love, or perhaps because of them, the world isn’t as lonely as it once was.
The New York subway sees four million people everyday. As you wave me goodbye, smiling ear to ear behind the windows of the closing doors, I can’t help but smile back, knowing that there’s one fewer stranger in the subway.
