It began on the underground.

The five working days of the week all comprised of one, boring element: routine. The variations were so bland they might as well not have bothered. London was supposed to be a bright centre of the planet. People would give anything for the opportunity to live there but the city was exacting in its payment once you made it. Read the fine print. London was grey and white and rainy. And crowded.

Days began early and ended late. In a small flat in Tufnell Park, Finn's day started with the urgent buzzing of his phone alarm. It bleated insistently in the dark bedroom. He rolled over with a groan, fumbling across the mattress for the glowing phone on the bedside table. Awkward, sleepy fingers managed to shut it off and up. Then he was left with a room he knew better in the dark than the light of day. He was gone while the sun was still waking up, back when it was going to bed, and out most of the weekend. His room was a stranger. That explained its total lack of housekeeping, at least.

He scratched his hair and forced his body out of bed. Warm sheets were replaced by a cold flush of fresh stale air. It was June, but his room faced west and was always chilly in the mornings. He compensated by moving fast. He left the door open to encourage some fresh air in and staggered into the shower. It was a small, sad thing that desperately needed updating. The toilet was wedged behind the door and always seemed in need of cleaning. There were two of them in the flat and not one of them every expressed the least interest in doing something about it. Midway down the room was a bathroom unit whose wall recess behind the taps was crowded with hair gel and deodorant cans. He pulled the cable over the mirror and rubbed his jaw. The stubble prickled his hands and stood out in his reflection. He grimaced at it and headed to the far end of the little bathroom. He pulled aside the shower curtain, decorated with orange and white circles, and cranked up the hot water.

The routine had begun. He never started anything in the shower until the tiles were shiny with steam. Finn dunked his head under the water and dragged his hands through his scalp, and slowly massaged it. He pumped the shower gel with the base of his palm and rubbed it vigorously into his skin: arms, underarms, shoulders, torso, thighs. The smell woke him up more than he hot water did. The moment that hit the steam he felt as though his day really started and, yawning into the water, began to rinse.

A good ten minutes and handfuls of shampoo later and he was out. Finn pulled a worn orange towel around his hips, hugging against his legs. He dressed in a pair of work trousers which smelled clean, a white shirt that definitely was, and a light worn jacket that had never been washed but like all good jackets would never tell. He managed to avoid contact with his flatmate while he stuffed bread into the toaster and flicked on the kettle. Conversation before eight was a crime. He leaned against the bench top and tucked one hand into his armpit, the other hand out and scrolling through his phone.

There were a handful of appointments at work today. Not enough to fill it, but that was fine - there was always something to do. The toast popped and the kettle boiled. Fed and watered and teeth brushed, he was out of the flat and down the narrow stairs twenty minutes later. He slung his brown messenger bag over his shoulder, the earbuds into his ears, and stuffed his hands into his pockets.

Routine.

The red tiles of Tufnell Park station came into view once he rounded the corner. The flat was tiny and the interior walls paper thin, but when it came to price and location it was unbeatable. Running late, he could swipe the Oyster card within four minutes of leaving the flat, but his alarm was usually reliable, and there was no rush this morning. He entered the lift, squashing against the wall with the other early risers heading into rush hour, and when it settled he headed down the steps for the Southbound platform.

The train was only a minute away. It announced itself with a rush of cold air and a flash of light, rolling alongside the platform like a great, blind, worm. The carriages were half full, and few people were getting off here at this time of day. Finn had little difficulty getting on and finding a seat between two men in sharper suits than his - he consoled himself with the knowledge that he had better socks. He glanced down at them. Orange and red stripes today.

Finn changed at Tottenham Court Road. This time there were a good deal of commuters getting both off and on and practice and skill alone had him manoeuvring his lean, broad-shouldered frame through the swarms of people. Mornings had one advantage in rush hour. Everyone was fresh from showering. They smelled good, they were clean. This was not the case after five o'clock. Especially not in summer; this was the summer that kept giving, and despite the cool start it had the promise of being a hotter day. He crossed the catwalk over the tracks and headed for the Westbound Central Line platform. He made it to the platform just as the train pulled in and as Stormtroop Fire's 'We Used to Wait' started on his mp3 player.

One of the rules of riding on the tube is that you keep to yourself. You don't make eye contact with anyone else. For however long you are jammed into the train it is polite to pretend you are an island; and nobody else exists. Don't look, don't talk, acknowledge only if you absolutely must and then keep this brief and to the point. And when the painful acknowledgement is done - go back to your individual islands until the agony is over and you can disembark. This is all very polite. It is expected.

Expected and automatic. That was why Finn didn't notice the girl in the beige dress until they were pulling out of Bond Street Station.

If Finn was honest with himself (which he liked to think he was, brutally and often) then he would admit he was a romantic at heart. Experimental and romantic, but even he did not think these moments really happened. He'd met a few people who said it had happened to them, and he'd always written it off as exaggeration. But here he was. With his own moment, and the moment's short, dark brown hair was matching the beige of her dress.

He broke the rule of the tube. She was just there, a blatant temptation to break every rule if ever he'd seen one. She stood with one arm wrapped around the pole over by the door at the extreme end of the carriage, two doors down from Finn. Her dress was light and breezy over white tanned arms and legs and from here, she didn't look the least bit bothered by the morning chill. Her feet were encased in a chunky pair of white heels, buckled on the side, a rather severe addition to her dainty dress and the fine silver charm bracelet around her wrist. Or at least, it looked like a charm bracelet, from this distance. He thought he would recognise one.

She was reading, holding a paperback whose spine was smashed because she was able to double the pages over to hold it just with he arm linked around the pole. Her body leaned gently into it and he could see the points of contact through her dress. Hip and shoulder. Finn couldn't really see her face, her head was bowed and the book she held obscuring her features. Then she looked up and right at him.

Ordinarily, that would have been enough for Finn to look quickly away and pretend he had been doing anything other than staring at her. But there was something else at work here, something behind the scenes so he just kept looking. And smiled.

The girl with the short dark brown hair smiled back. It was a little slow in coming but appeared seemingly of its own accord, tugging at the corners of her lips until the rest of her decided that it was okay to smile at a stranger on the tube. She was gorgeous, Finn thought, her features beautifully formed and definitely easy on the eyes. Her face was square and perfectly suited to smiling. If first impressions were anything, it was that this was a girl who laughed a lot.

The train pulled into Marble Arch. Eye contact was broken as people rose to get out, shouldering against those who could not wait long enough to get in. The carriage fattened up with passengers and Finn couldn't see her any more. He didn't even know if she was still on the train until they were almost at Lancaster Gate - his stop - and he saw a flash of beige.

Finn stood. He needed to get off here. The carriage thinned again as more people disembarked than got on, by accident or miracle, and he paused with his hand on the central pole and looked back up the length of the carriage. She was still there, eyes on her book again, which was held closer to her body now against the press of people. The doors closed. Finn remained on the train. A disembodied announcement came over as it always did, and the train began to move forward and gather speed: This is a Central Line Train to Ealing Broadway.

The girl looked up from her book. She was standing with her legs apart, braced in case of any sudden jars. She rode the tube often, then. She smiled at him again, closed-lipped but genuine, and offered a little good morning nod.

Finn returned it with a jaunty, amused smile. He laughed softly out loud, but the train was noisy enough to drown it. This was stupid! She was reading her book again and Finn knew he should go over there and talk to her, because the next stop could be her last and the chances of ever seeing her again were slim. He'd never seen her before and beige dress or not, he was sure he would have noticed her then if he had noticed her now. He didn't really give much credence to fate or destiny but something was going on here. But he didn't move. It felt like a greater offence than looking at her; talking to her was breaking more than an unspoken rule, it was breaking a spell.

He looked at the darkened window instead so he could stare at her blurry reflection instead of her directly. After a few moments he realised she was no longer pretending to read the book. She was looking out the dark windows too and gazing at him. In tandem, they looked back at each other and he swore he heard her laugh just as the breaks sounded and they slowed into Queensway.

Now, or never.

The doors opened and a rush of people came in, and once they had cleared enough he realised she was no longer on the train. No beige dress, no dark brown hair. The doors closed and took Finn even further from his own station.

This is Central Line Train to Ealing Broadway.

Finn's heart did a peculiar thing. It sank right down to the bottom of his stomach where it settled, heavy and flat and confused. He hoped he would see the girl in the beige dress again, but thought that was probably a foolish notion.

He would see her again but it wouldn't be for a long time.