An Encounter With the Girl Who Ghosted Me
And I was left drenched in the torrent of her memories
As the long piercing shriek of the train’s wheels dragging on the iron tracks finally stopped, and the wrinkled doors of the train stuttered open, the mass of eager crowd poured out, rushing towards the existing stairs. Like a torrent, the unceasing flow gushed down the stairwell and emerged into the ticket hall. Restricted by the narrow opening of the turnstiles, the torrent slowed, and the columnar rush reduced to a trickle. But then suddenly, even that came to a halt. Some problem at the ticket turnstile — I heard a floating voice assessing the issue.
Made to stop, the impatience of the tired crowd buzzed in the air while my gaze wandered left towards the fenestrated wall of the station, where glazed windows were blinding white in the autumn sun. The bright sunlight fell in thick square shafts into the station, illuminating the white-square columns, and the flat faces of the people standing on the other side of the turnstile, their autumn clothes vivid and bright. The scene looked almost like a painting, a Baroque painted by Caravaggio.
Such listless thoughts were drifting in and out of my mind when my wandering gaze suddenly stopped, arrested at one point in the crowd. It was a face I had last seen years ago, the face that was…
