The Guy with the Curly Hair

partnersidllc
1 day ago
2 min read

Handsome man on a subway train wearing a silver BRAXX pendant from PartnersID.com

I live in Queens, New York. Part of my day, every day, twice a day, is riding the subway. It’s busy in the morning and borders on chaos in the evening.

That day was no different.

I left work and headed down the stairs for the ride home. The platform was cold and hot at the same time. Cool air moved through the station, but the press of people made everything feel warm and damp, a shared discomfort no one acknowledged.

I always wear headphones. It’s a habit. A boundary. I avoid eye contact, keep my head down, wait.

Like clockwork, the train pulled in. As it slowed, the crowd leaned forward, already choosing where they wanted to land. When the doors opened, the push came from behind. I looked up, scanning the car, figuring out where I could stand without being trapped.

That’s when I saw it.

Not him, exactly.

The pendant.

It hung low on his chest, steady despite the movement around him. I recognized it immediately. There was no question, no second look needed. Recognition is like that. Once is enough.

I tried to move toward him. The crowd decided otherwise.

The surge carried me sideways, then forward, then in. No matter how I shifted, I couldn’t break free from the force of bodies closing ranks. From deeper inside the car, I searched for him again.

I caught the curls of his hair. His back was to me.

I stood there, one hand on the pole, pretending not to look while doing nothing else. The train lurched forward. One stop passed. Then another.

At the next station, the doors opened and people poured out. He stepped off with them. No pause. No glance back.

The doors closed before I could move.

The train pulled away, carrying me home, leaving him behind between stops. I took my headphones off then. I don’t know why. The car was loud, but it felt quieter without them.

I notice it now.

On platforms. In crowds. In places where no one is supposed to see anyone.

I wear one now.

Not for him.

Not because I expect to see him again.

But because recognition works both ways.

Maybe one day he’ll see me.

And he’ll know.