When rush hour hits she boards the train and waits for her stop. Halfway through the journey the woman stops, she thinks she see’s him, leaning against the window, his black hair curling gently at the tips. She goes to call out his name, Jon, but stops. He turns his head and the shade of gold in his eyes catches her off guard. The rest of the journey is spent in a cautious kind of silence, the urge to return to her home growing fainter. The walls no longer feel as alluring as they once had.

Individually we all served our purpose. We all made sense. It worked. It honestly worked.