Linkin Park blasting in his state-of-the-art headphones, he kept his eyes on his game as he walked into the train. He’d had a bad day at school, with his chemistry teacher yelling at him for falling asleep in class. It couldn’t be helped; it wasn’t his fault that Mr. Burns was boring.
Oh God, he’d just taken a lot of damage.
The train lurched, and he bumped into something. Looking back at the digital screen, he swore under his breath. His character had just died. His attention had been pulled away for just a moment and he’d died. Not in the literal sense, of course, but it felt like a tiny, little part of him slowly ebbed away every time he died in a game. Giving up, he turned the device off, slipped it into his hoodie pocket and tapped his Converse-clad foot to the beat of the music pumping through his headphones.
Strange, he’d heard the same song at least a hundred times, but there had never been a faint voice yelling “hey!” indignantly in the distance. It sounded vaguely female.
The slap came as a surprise; and it only started to throb seconds after the palm had hit him. Ouch. He felt a tugging on the right side of his headphones, and turned to look at the culprit.
It was a girl.
Surprisingly pretty, with wide green eyes, freckles and curly brown hair. She was angry. With a jolt and another slap to his cheek, he realized the anger was directed at him.
He tore off the headphones.
“What is your problem?”
“Excuse me, what’s yours? You bumped into me and didn’t say sorry! That was really rude!”
Oh.
So the something he had bumped into when the train lurched was a someone.
“Well,” he huffed, trying to think of a good comeback. “You’re being rude right now! I mean, I’m sorry I bumped into you, but yelling at me? In public?”
“You boys and your pride.” She said, glaring at him. Crossing her arms, she crossed over to the opposite side of the train car and continued to stare lasers.
But she was stunning when the blaze inhabited her green eyes, stiff posture and the anger he felt radiating off her petite frame.
He wanted to be genuine with her, say he was sorry—wait, that would totally ruin his image. He put the headphones back on and scrolled mindlessly through the messages on his phone, occasionally sneaking glances at the girl.
He didn’t even know her name.
Suddenly, he wanted to. He wanted to know her, not the angry-her, the her that would be willing to endure hours and hours of playing games, the her that would consider him as a nice person.
He almost walked over to where she was, just to soothe away that stubborn jaw and glazed eyes.
But he didn’t, there had been other people who had looked and listened to their argument. “What a rude boy,” an old lady remarked to herself.
And he realized things could have been different. He could’ve said sorry in the first place, then ask if they could meet someplace again—no, it was too late. He couldn’t do anything.
The same old lady spoke up. “You want to be nice? Go on, this moment won’t last forever. You may never see her again. Believe me, I know.”
He hesitated.
And waited. “I’m preparing myself,” he whispered to the old lady.
He could’ve sworn the lady rolled her eyes. “Now.”
He finally gathered up all the courage he had and walked over to her.
She looked up, and a smile was beginning to take over her face. But it was an apologetic smile, a smile that seemed almost pitying.
Just as he reached out a hand to her, the train doors opened and she walked away without another word.
Fleeting.