Transmutation of a Stranger

I see her just about every morning as I walk to work. I go towards the train, as she is walking out of it. I go to work at her city, and she comes to mine. At first, it wasn’t her who drew my attention, but rather the older, diminutive, dark-skinned lady in front of her, who always carries a life-sized cutout of someone, walking towards some unknown destination—both to her and I. She also has a predictable routine, and maybe, a much more intricate background. But it’s the girl I always look at. She has baby blue eyes, and walks as if she’s lost in the woods. We have gazed at each other in passing a few times, and now, we’re both acutely aware of each other’s existence, amongst the chaos of a morning rush. At this point, we both know that the other exists, and nothing more, and that’s OK.

Isn’t that strange? This being, whose minuscule sliver of a routine, five days out of the week, I can predict, but who I haven’t said a single word to. I know exactly where we’ll cross paths if I leave my home at 8:25, and I know that I’ll miss her if I leave my home at 8:40. I know that she arrives on the 8:22 train, and I know that she’s not from here, because I saw her walk with a suitcase and a backpack the last working day before Christmas. I know that she’s dyed her hair a few times, and I can tell that she’s not a coffee drinker. I sense that she’s an introvert, and I wonder if she wonders about me as I wonder about her. Has she noticed my hair, as it’s gotten longer? Or my beard, as it’s gotten darker? Or the change in my fingers, as they went from bare to clothed with rings? I wonder if she wonders where I am, on the days we don’t cross paths, as I do when I don’t see her. Is she on vacation? Is she sick? Did she miss the train and is running late? Most importantly, is she OK? I wonder and wonder and wonder, and then it’s all OK, the next time I see her.

There are seven billion beings in this place; that is 7,000,000,000. I am only one, as she is one. There are so many people I come in contact with every day, every hour, every minute, and every second. Everyone filled with their own horror, laughter, sorrow, tears, and through each contact with everyone else, I pick up something from them—whether it’s bad or good, or happy or sad. I am an empath, and I can read people. Except for her. And I wonder if she is an empath too, like me, in this world, just passing through.