It was just another rush-hour ride.

Everyone buried in their phones. No eye contact. That same worn-out silence only subways know how to hold.

I was scrolling through emails when I glanced up—and saw her.
Big coat. Glasses halfway falling off her head. Calm, gentle face. But what caught me wasn’t her expression.

It was her phone.

She had the Notes app open. Line after line. Typed carefully, slowly—like each word mattered. And at the very top, it said:

“Things I want to tell you when we talk again.”

I couldn’t stop looking.

The list went on:
• I remembered to plant those blue flowers you loved
• I found the sweater in the back of the closet—still smells like you
• I watched our favorite movie and didn’t cry this time (almost)
• I’m okay. Not every day, but some

That’s when it hit me.

She wasn’t just passing time. She was writing to someone she missed. Maybe someone gone. Maybe someone just distant. But whoever they were, they mattered. Deeply.

And in that moment—on a train full of strangers and static—I realized something:

Love doesn’t stop. It just shifts shape. Sometimes, into a quiet subway note typed with trembling fingers.

I couldn’t help but stare at her as she typed, each word flowing out with such careful intention. There was a soft tenderness in her movements, as if she were writing to a secret that no one else could hear. It was strange—almost intimate, watching someone else’s emotions unfold in front of me, as if I were an intruder in a private moment.

I shifted my gaze back to my phone, trying to focus, but my mind kept wandering back to her. Who was she writing to? Was it someone she had lost? Someone she hadn’t spoken to in years? Or was it someone she longed to be close to again but couldn’t?

A sudden thought crossed my mind. What if it was a letter to herself? A way of coping with the passing days, reminding herself of the things that still connected her to someone she loved. That seemed possible, too.

I didn’t know why, but I felt this deep urge to understand her, to somehow bridge the gap between the stranger on the subway and myself. But I didn’t want to approach her, not directly. It felt like crossing a line.

So I did the only thing I could think of—I copied the message from her phone. Of course, I didn’t copy everything, just the last line, the one that stood out to me the most:

“I’m okay. Not every day, but some.”

It stuck with me. Maybe it was the simplicity of it. The raw honesty. Maybe because I’d been struggling myself, trying to make sense of some of the mess in my own life. I’d been out of touch with my family, avoiding old friends, not able to talk about things that were bothering me. I wasn’t okay. Not every day. But I hadn’t said it out loud, not even to myself.

A few days passed, and I couldn’t stop thinking about that woman. Her quiet determination to hold on to the good parts of her life, even when they felt broken or lost. I began to wonder what her story was—who had hurt her, who she missed, who had been the one to leave her with these quiet reminders.

Then, one morning, I was on the subway again, on my usual commute. As I boarded the train, I spotted her. She was there, sitting in the same spot by the door, her head slightly tilted as she looked out the window. She didn’t notice me. But this time, instead of just stealing glances, I felt something shift inside me.

I wanted to speak to her. I wanted to tell her I had read her notes, even if by accident, and that I understood. Maybe not the specifics, but the feeling. The weight of missing someone and still holding on to them, even if they were no longer there in the way you wanted them to be.

But I didn’t. I sat across from her, lost in my thoughts, unsure of how to break the silence between us.

The train stopped at my station, and I stood up to leave, glancing at her one last time. To my surprise, she looked up at that exact moment. Our eyes met for just a fraction of a second, but it was enough. Her face softened, and she gave me a slight nod, a silent acknowledgment.

It felt like she knew. Like she understood.

And then, without thinking, I stepped off the train.

As I walked to work that morning, I couldn’t help but think about that moment. I had never spoken a word to her, yet somehow, we had shared something. Maybe it was the shared understanding of the complexities of love, of loss, or of the quiet ways people grieve. Maybe it was just the feeling of being seen, even in a fleeting moment.

But as the day wore on, something strange happened. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I needed to reach out, not to her, but to someone in my own life. Someone I had distanced myself from.

It had been months since I had spoken to my older sister, Maya. Our relationship had become strained over the years, mostly because I had retreated into myself. I had never been good at opening up, and she had always been the one to hold us together, to check in on me when things got tough. But I had pushed her away. I had been so caught up in my own life, so focused on trying to figure things out, that I had forgotten the most important thing: family.

That evening, I sat down, took a deep breath, and pulled out my phone. I opened a new message and began to type.

“Maya, I’ve been thinking a lot about things lately, and I realize I haven’t been the best at staying in touch. I just wanted to say that I’m sorry. I know I haven’t been myself, and I’ve been distant. But I’m trying to work through it. I’m not okay every day, but some days are better than others. I hope you’re doing okay.”

I paused, reading the words back. They felt vulnerable, raw, and honest. And yet, I felt a sense of relief wash over me. Maybe it wasn’t enough, maybe it didn’t fix everything, but it was a step. A small one, but one I hadn’t taken before.

I hit send.

The response came almost immediately. “I’ve missed you, too. Let’s talk soon. I love you.”

I don’t think I’d ever been so relieved to hear from her. It wasn’t an immediate fix, and it wouldn’t erase all the years we’d spent growing apart, but it was a beginning. A sign that even when things felt lost, there was always a way to reach out, to reconnect.

The next few weeks were filled with more honest conversations with Maya, with my parents, and even some old friends I’d been neglecting. It wasn’t easy, and there were times when I wanted to shut myself off again, to avoid confronting the parts of my life that hurt. But every time I felt like pulling away, I remembered that woman on the subway. I remembered her quiet words—her list of things she wanted to say—and it gave me the courage to speak up, too.

And then came the twist.

A few months later, I ran into her again on the subway. This time, we both recognized each other immediately. She smiled warmly, a small, knowing smile that felt almost like a greeting from an old friend.

“I see you’ve been making your own lists,” she said, nodding at my phone in my hand.

I was surprised, but I smiled back. “I guess you could say that.”

“You know, sometimes the things we think we’ve lost… they’re never really gone. They just wait for us to remember them.”

Her words hit me in the chest, but this time, I wasn’t the only one changed. She had been writing to someone she missed, someone she was holding onto. And in some strange, karmic twist, her message had led me to reconnect with my own loved ones.

We parted ways again, but this time, I felt lighter. Her note had sparked something in me—a reminder that no matter how far we drift, we always have the power to reconnect. Even if it’s just one step at a time.

And if you’ve been holding onto someone in silence, waiting for the right moment to reach out—maybe today is that moment.

Share this story if you think someone needs to hear it. We all need a reminder that love, in all its forms, is never truly lost. It just waits for us to open our hearts again.