9:45 a.m
March, 2023

The train rattled steadily beneath me, the faint vibrations running through the worn leather seat. Outside, the European countryside was still waking up from the long winter— fields stretched out in a palette of grey and brown, dotted with the occasional tree stubbornly holding onto the last of its bare branches. The air was sharp and crisp, and the sky above a sheet of clouds threatening rain.

I shifted in my seat, watching the cold light filter through the windows, when the stranger across from me caught my eye. He sat with a small book in his hands, the cover worn, its edges soft with use. He seemed engrossed in his book when the bickering of an old couple in a language he did not recognize caught his attention. The boy, who was sitting beside them, after seemingly getting enough of it, moved to the open seat next to me. The riotous party soon got up and moved to another train car, yet the boy sat in his new seat with his book. Poetry. From this new angle I could make out the title— an anthology of poems in French, though the spine was cracked enough that I couldn't make out the name of the poet.

He was absorbed, his eyes following the lines with slow, deliberate focus, as if each word was something to be carefully considered. There was something about the quiet way he turned the pages that made me feel like I was intruding on a private moment, as if the book in his hand was a small refuge from the cold March day outside.

The boy looked about my age, with tawny golden hair that just fell over his forehead, which was currently creased in concentration. His eyes were downcast to his book, but they appeared to be a deep blue color, which reminded me of a storm across an ocean.

Tempestuous and variable.
Cold and relentless.

His eyes fixed me in the best ways, bringing me further into its trance, causing me to dive deeper and deeper into the unknown.

Before he could notice me staring, I decided to say something.

Splash.

"Do you have any idea what they were arguing about?" At this, the stranger glanced up and offered a small, apologetic smile.

"No, sorry, I don't speak German."

"Ah, that's too bad, whatever it was, it sounded interesting." I could not tell by the boy's answer if he was interested in talking more. I certainly was curious about him but would not push. I decided instead to relax back in my seat, but before long, the boy spoke up again.

"Have you heard that as couples get older, they lose their ability to hear each other?" The boy was now leaning forward as if he was already actively interested in whatever I would say. Before I got a chance to speak however, the boy spoke again.

"Supposedly, men lose their ability to hear high-pitched sounds, and women lose their hearing in the low end. I guess they sort of nullify each other." I was now mirroring the boy, with my body turned towards him and my book of Shakespearen plays long forgotten. There was a bit of amusement behind the boy's shy smile as he related this fact.

"I suppose that is nature's way of allowing couples to grow old together without killing each other." At this, I earned the first (hopefully not the last) genuine laugh from the stranger. His entire face lit up even though I did not grasp what was so funny, besides the irony of what I said.

"Grow together." The boy let out a deep sigh, as if contemplating the right words to convey what was on his mind. "The concept of growing old and into love is so much more intriguing than falling in love, don't you think? It's like, on all our good days and bad days, I will choose to love you. I will learn with you, I will live my life with you and we will grow into and with each other through the passage of time." His ocean eyes lit up as he continued, as if he was waiting for the right opportunity to spill those words.

"I don't know about that; it sounds very textbook to me." I shrugged.

"I mean..." the stranger laughed, sounded nervous, seemed stiff, as if he was made of porcelain, as if he was about to fall to the floor and shatter, ".... perhaps it's the society's fault as it tends to associate the word love itself with romantic relationships, so sometimes love is deemed absent if someone doesn't have a partner or has had a troubled romantic past. Nevertheless, love encompasses a broad spectrum. As social beings, we need other humans, and just by desiring other humans is already a form of love."

I knew him. I shuffled on my seat, changing my position a little like I could beckon the words into my soul if I caught them at the right angle. I definitely knew him from somewhere. His words were familiar, in addition to being completely honest. I recognised this man, in some distant way that I could not catch hold of.

After he had relaxed once more, the boy seemed to notice the book now sitting on the seat next to me.

"You like Shakespeare?" To my relief he diverted the conversation to a lighter subject.

"Yes. I'm actually on my way to London at the moment to perform in the midsummer's night dream.

"Oh, so you're an actor?" The stranger held my gaze as he spoke.

"What, is that surprising?" I asked, a smile forming on my face.

"A little. When I think of actors, I typically think of famous people who live in Hollywood and fly around in private jets, not people like you who ride the train to where they need to go."

"Well to be fair, Hollywood isn't ready for me yet," I said, now pretending to show off. At this, the boy raised his eyebrows, clearly judging the legitimacy of what I was saying, while also wondering where I was going to go with this.

"You see-" I continued, "I'm working my way up. I did some theater in high school, much to the displeasure of my father. Then ever since I've been on my own, auditioning for any role I can. Once I've outgrown the theater I'll naturally move on to the movies and be on the big screen with the greats, hopefully." At this, the boy chuckled.

Before I could respond, the couple from earlier came back into their car and resumed their argument. I wanted to continue our conversation though, so I asked if we should move to the lounge car to which he agreed.

When we arrived near a clear table, the boy looked back up and I met the eyes of this stranger once again.

My breath got caught in my throat.

Those eyes held as much mystery as his words. They were deep, dark, and almost lazy in their appraisal of him because they did not change in expression. There was an inquisitiveness though, that made me feel I was the victim of a quiet but thorough x-ray.

The boy glanced around, as if expecting someone else, and then sat.

I looked over my shoulder, too, uneasily, but then walked towards the empty seat. My pace was suddenly shuffling with nerves. The boy was similar in height to me, and visibly a little older. He was also, I had no choice but to think, as attractive as anybody I'd ever laid my eyes upon.

We were settling down, and I asked where the stranger came from. He had an accent that was American, but I feigned ignorance to learn more about him.

"Well, I'm from Vermont, where I went to school, but I'm currently living in New York." The boy seemed more relaxed here, reclining slightly into his seat. His eyes occasionally glanced out the window to view the gorgeous snow clad scenery passing by.

"Then what is an American such as yourself doing on a train to Paris?" I asked playfully but noticed that the boy's demeanor changed slightly. He seemed to shrink back in on himself, which I immediately wanted to fix. I could tell that the boy was shy, but the way his eyes lit up when looking at me made me realize there was more to him than what was on the surface.

"I've been traveling around, I guess, writing and sightseeing mostly."

"You're a writer?" I asked, astonished. Now I was certain I knew him. I knew his words from somewhere. I was ninety-nine percent sure that I'd read this man's anthologies somewhere before. The only problem was, I had read very many books across twenty-three years. Hundreds. Thousands, even.

I could not place him.

Still, I plumbed the depths of my brain for where I could know this man from, but strangely his appearance seemed less familiar than his words, like I'd met him through literature but never through this person.

"What kinds of things do you write? Poetry, perhaps?" I asked, recalling the book this peculiar man was reading earlier. I was desperate to get more out of him, and he noticed that from my words, as a result a rosiness crawling up his cheeks.

"I've always found my mind too disorganized for poetry. There has to be some order to that kind of chaos. I reserve it only for the subjects on which I have total clarity." He sighed. "However, lately I've been hating everything I write."

I did not believe for one second that this man could write anything bad and immediately became determined to read something of his.

"Oh, I doubt it's that bad, you should let me read some of it," I said, watching as his eyes drifted from me to something far away, his pupils now fully constricted.

"So, where are you from?" The stranger asked, now desperately trying to change the subject. I decided to drop it for now, but fully intended to ask about it again.

"London, originally Manchester where I attended school before ultimately dropping out to pursue acting. Anything for art, am I right?"

The writer nodded, smiling gently. We both then fell silent for a moment before I spoke again.

"Are you headed all the way to Paris or stopping somewhere along the way?"

"I'm going to Vienna."

"Vienna? What's there?"

"I don't know. I'm flying out of there tomorrow."

"You headed back home?"

"Yeah, I'm pretty done with Europe to be honest." The writer sat back and exhaled deeply.

"So, I'm guessing this trip hasn't been good for you?"

"Well, to put it directly, I couldn't achieve what I was aiming for. So it pretty much sucked." To his frankness I let out a chuckle before he chimed in once more.

"I guess that's not entirely true, I've been on many trains for a lot of my trip which has accorded me with a great deal of ideas that I probably wouldn't have had if I was, say, home alone in my apartment."

"What kind of ideas?" I responded, now leaning my elbow on the table in front of us.

"Nothing too exciting," he said, clearly sensing my excitement for whatever he was about to say.

"Mostly just snippets, or concepts I want to write about. Like the feeling of sonder you get when surrounded by people in train stations, or bus stops. The realization that each passerby is living a life as vivid and complex as your own."

"It's like every person has a story," I added.

"Yes. An epic story that continues invisibly around you like an anthill sprawling deep underground, with elaborate passageways to thousands of other lives that you'll never know existed, in which you might appear only once, as an extra sipping coffee in the background, as a blur of traffic passing on a highway, as a lighted window at dusk." The writer seemed to notice he was rambling and slightly blushed, folding his arms across his chest. The scarlet hue that adorned his cheeks was the most beautiful thing in the world, next to his words.

"What about you? Anywhere besides London?" I could tell that the writer didn't want to talk further about his ideas, but again decided to leave it for now and come back to it later.

"Paris is where this train is taking me, then I'll be taking another one back to London." At this, the writer's eyes lit up.

"Oh, I've wanted to go to Paris since forever! It's such a romantic city, I've invariably wanted to be a part of the artistic atmosphere."

"You could always come with me," I said with a wink, the blush growing on his cheeks.

"N-no, I really must catch my flight tomorrow."

"Alright, suit yourself. But I could say I'd make Paris ten times better than your girlfriend ever could."

"G-girlfriend? I don't have a girlfriend."

I wanted to make sure he was available before continuing whatever this was that was growing between us. "Boyfriend then?" I asked now, growing more serious.

"N-no," he replied, then quickly added, "but I'm gay, just so you know." His face turned wary, but he still looked me dead in the eye, as if daring me to make a joke or be offended by it. He had surely faced some disapproval of his sexuality before, I sadly realized.

"I am too, just so you know," I said sincerely, offering him a small smile. At my words, all the fight left the boy's body, as if realizing for the first time, he had a friend.

We both just took each other in for a moment, as if clearly seeing each other for the first time. Then, we noticed the train slowing down as we slowly pulled into the station.

"You get off here, right?" I said, after noticing the sign for Vienna. The blue-eyed stranger blinked up at me as if just noticing that this was his stop.

"Oh, yes, I do." The boy sounded sad, like he was genuinely sorry to have to leave.

"You know, I wish we had met earlier, I really liked talking to you." I knew the boy would just assume I meant earlier on the train, but I really wished I'd met this man years ago.

"Yeah, me too, it was really nice talking to you," The writer said, sounding mournful.

We both then fell silent as the train entirely pulled to a stop. There was an announcement that the train had arrived in Vienna in case the passengers were unaware. As the writer got up to leave, I was struck with a crazy idea. I then grabbed his wrist to which he looked alarmed, but oddly hopeful at.

"I have an admittedly insane idea, but if I don't ask you this, it's going to haunt me for the rest of my life."

"What?" The writer asked as nonchalantly as possible.

"I want to keep talking to you, in case you haven't noticed. And I can't help but feel like we have some sort of connection. Right?"

"Yeah, I think so," The boy replied, looking down at where my hand met his wrist. Once I realised I was still holding on, I blushed slightly but continued.

"Right, great, so here's the deal. What if I get off the train with you right now and we go explore Vienna together?"

"What?" The writer chuckled. His laugh was airy and light like the sound of bells in a warm spring evening.

"Come on, it'll be fun. Unless you already had plans?"

"No actually, I couldn't reserve a room at the last moment, so I was just planning on spending the night walking around and enjoying the city at night. Until my flight at twelve-thirty, that is."

"Well wouldn't it be a lot more fun if I came with you?" I said, grinning into his now dark blue eyes. The writer still seemed hesitant so I quickly added, "and if I turn out to be a psycho, you can always just ditch me at some place," to which he gave a half-suppressed laugh, still dubious.

"All right, all right," I continued. "Think of it like this. Jump ahead ten, twenty years, okay? And you're married. Only your marriage doesn't have the same energy it used to have. You start to blame your husband. You start to think about all those guys you've met in your life and what might've happened if you picked up one of them. I'm one of those guys. That's me. So, think of this as time travel, from then to now, to find out what you've been missing out on."

Throughout my speech the writer laughed a heavy laugh, like he had something to say about that. An affirmation by him was evident, yet it seemed like a pleasant surprise when he said, "Let me get my bag."

As the rest of the passengers grabbed all their belongings, they made their way onto the platform where I grabbed the writer's bag for him, to which I received a small nod.

We had made it only a few feet when the blue-eyed stranger stopped and put his things on the ground. I was confused until I saw his arm stretched out for a handshake.

"My name is Nick Nelson," The writer said, smiling.

Nick Nelson.

The name washed over my memory like a crashing wave.

What had been, when we'd met, curiosity, turned to something like veneration.

Suddenly, it was so obvious why I'd recognized his words.

No one else, I knew, in the world, could've quite such a mastery of words as him.

"Oh."

"I wouldn't expect you to recognize me. I've done very well to keep my face far from the cameras for quite some time."

"I did recognize you," I said breathlessly. "I recognized you from the way you spoke. I just couldn't... I don't think I wanted to admit to myself that it could be you. I did not dare to hope. But I recognized you."

"Words leave an imprint of character more lasting but more mysterious than the face," said the writer.

"Mr Nelson-" I started. There was so much I wanted to say. No amount of mental preparation could've readied me to be standing in front of what people consider to be one of the greatest minds of this generation.

Young, talented, controversial. Nick Nelson possessed a vision that would fill me with envy if all of the space inside me wasn't already taken up by admiration.

"Yes?"

I put the bags on the ground and reached out, grasping his hand in mine.

"Charlie Spring."