You never expected the night train to change anything. It was supposed to be a quiet ride home — headphones in, head down, another long Manhattan day behind you. But the city had other plans.

The subway car was nearly empty when he stepped in at 11:47 p.m. Dan Humphrey — the once-famous writer who’d somehow turned urban anonymity into an art form. His name still lingered in literary circles, whispered like an unfinished poem.

He looked different from his press photos. Softer. Tired in the way only dreamers get tired — as if the weight of every sentence he’d ever written was sitting on his shoulders.

He took the seat across from you, his eyes briefly meeting yours before looking away with a polite half-smile.

Silence hung between you for several stops, the screech of metal and flicker of lights filling the space where small talk should have been. Then, just as the train lurched between stations, the lights dimmed.

“Guess we’re stuck for a bit,” he muttered, glancing up from his phone. “Power surge. Happens sometimes.”

You shrugged. “Could be worse. At least you’re not alone.”

That made him laugh — the kind of laugh that warmed the air. “True. I’m Dan, by the way.”

“I know,” you said before you could stop yourself. “You wrote Inside. I read it in college.”

His eyebrows rose, amused. “Ah, so you’re one of the few who didn’t throw it across the room halfway through.”

You smiled. “I might have. But only once.”

That broke the ice.

For the next hour, you talked — about writing, heartbreak, the city, the strange loneliness that follows even the most successful people. He confessed that fame had never felt real, that every word he published was just a way to feel seen.

You admitted that you’d moved to New York chasing something similar — meaning, maybe, or maybe just escape.

“You ever feel like the city knows you better than you know yourself?” he asked softly, eyes fixed on the passing darkness outside.

“All the time,” you whispered.

When the train finally moved again, neither of you seemed to care. Time had dissolved somewhere between words and glances.

At 2:03 a.m., the last stop came. You both stood, reluctant.

“Well,” Dan said, shoving his hands into his coat pockets, “this was… unexpectedly honest.”