It wasn’t the first time.

You’d seen him before—always on the same train, but never at the same time. Sometimes with paint on his hands, once with a black eye. He had the look of someone who never planned to be where he was, but never rushed to leave either.

Today, he was already seated when you stepped in. End of the car. Elbows on his knees. A pen cap in his mouth. He didn’t look up when you passed.

You weren’t trying to sit near him.

But the train jolted hard a few minutes in—just enough to knock you sideways. Your shoulder hit his.

“Sorry,” you said automatically.

“Yeah,” he muttered, barely glancing at you. Then, after a beat: “Wasn’t you. Probably karma.”

You didn’t respond. He didn’t expect you to.

Silence stretched between two strangers. Not awkward. Just real.

You watched the blur of buildings pass outside. He went back to chewing the pen cap, like his thoughts were louder than the train.

Then he asked, “You ever get the feeling you’ve met someone in a dream before it happens?”

You turned. “That a line?”

“No,” he said, almost laughing. “I never use the same one twice.”

You didn’t ask what that meant. You didn’t want to know if you were one of many, or just passing through.

There was something about the way he sat—like the moment had already passed, and he was just waiting to forget it.

Three stops later, he stood up without a word and got off. You didn’t watch him go.

But when the doors slid shut, you noticed the folded paper tucked under his seat. Left on purpose, maybe. Maybe not.

You waited until the car was empty before picking it up.

It wasn’t heavy. Just one line, written in small, deliberate print:

"Don’t worry. I fall in love like breathing. You’re just the first one I remembered."

No number. No name.

You stared at it longer than you meant to. Then folded it again and slipped it into your pocket.

It didn’t mean anything.

But somehow… it made sense.