To my father, whose love and wisdom continue to guide me, even in his absence. This story is for you, Dad. Your memory lives on.
STRANGERS ON A TRAIN
Elara
We've heard of a beautiful tragedy, but ever heard of a beautiful heartbreak?
I met him on a train, on my way to Cinque Terre, Italy from France. It was the mid-semester break, and I usually went down there to see my folks and rest. Medical school takes a toll on you; I enjoy the work, but it's draining, mentally and physically. I took the Aurora Express when I visit my folks. It takes over thirteen hours to get there by train, but it's worth the time. The journey is cheaper and more peaceful compared to other means of transport.
This train ride started no differently—until he walked up to my seat. He was tall, Asian, and from his complexion, I guessed he was from somewhere in the Middle East. There was something about him, I couldn't take my eyes off. He had an air of regalness, and it didn't help that he was handsome. He must have noticed me staring because he broke my concentration with a simple "Hello" and a smirk when he sat across from me.
And that was all we said to each other for the next hour.
Rex
Can you love someone too quickly? Or is it just infatuation?
I met her on a train on my way to Cinque Terre, Italy. I had been in France for a photography exhibition. A plethora of street photographers were given an opportunity to showcase their work, and I happened to be one of the lucky ones. Photography was my first and only love; I got to capture moments and, through those moments, stop time. Hold it hostage, manipulate it through the feeling of a particular shot. There was another expo taking place in Italy, but this time around I was going to be a spectator, so I decided to take the train. I wasn't in a rush, so I figured I might as well enjoy the journey.
As I made my way to my seat, there she sat, adjacent to my seat. In her white top and baggy jeans, hair tied in a messy but neat bun (if that made sense, the only way I could describe what I saw), her radiant caramel skin and blue eyes only added to her beauty. I had never seen anything or anyone more beautiful, and I've seen the sunset in Santorini, Greece.
I said hello when I sat down, and she nodded back with a polite half-smile.
After an hour of silence, she finally spoke, though without revealing her gorgeous blue eyes, her gaze intent on her Stephen King book, The Stand.
"He any good?" she asked, referring to the James Patterson book I was reading, The Midnight Club. I sensed a playful but condescending tone in her question, and it made me smile.
"I take it you're not a fan?" I asked, peeking from behind my book.
Still not breaking her gaze, she said, "Well, he's a bit of a hack. Being carried on the back of other authors he claims to collaborate with."
This made me put down my book. It wasn't that the comment took me off-guard, but I figured she wanted to engage in more conversation than just small talk. After I put down my book, she followed suit, finally revealing her ocean-blue eyes.
Now those took me off guard. I paused a minute before responding, wanting to study her face, to capture this moment in my memory. Then I said, "Well, at least he focuses on his art, rather than having dubious political and moral takes on life."
That made her smile, not a half-smile but a full one with teeth. And once again, I found myself fawning over her radiance and beauty.
Elara
After an hour had passed, I decided to break the silence. I gave him flack over his choice of novelist, and he returned the favor. I began to like him.
"I'm Rex," he said.
"Elara," I replied.
He paused for a minute. Throughout our brief encounter, I caught him staring at me in a way that suggested he was trying to memorize my face, my features. I would or should have been creeped out or maybe worried, but the way he looked at me made me feel safe in his company, seen, as though he knew me before this moment.
"That's an interesting name," he finally said, but not scornfully. Rather, calmly and enticingly.
"Oh, like Rex," I joked. "But don't worry, I won't make the 'go fetch' joke," I continued. He laughed, audibly I must add.
"No, you should have; it would have been original," he said sarcastically.
"So, where to?" he asked.
"Cinque Terre, visiting my folks. I'm on mid-semester break," I said.
"You're a student? What field of study?"
"Medical student, hoping to be a doctor without borders," I said.
"How old are you?" he asked. The question took me by surprise—not the context but the manner in which he asked it, assertive and unafraid.
"Very forward of you. Don't you know it's not polite to ask a woman her age?" I said.
"I don't believe in that, and I have a feeling you don't either," he said, with that look again, as though he was studying my every feature.
"And you would be correct. I'm 28," I said.
Rex
When she told me her age, she must have seen the shock on my face because she said, "Problem?"
"No, it's fitting. You act and reason like a 28-year-old; you just don't look it."
She chuckled. "How old do I look, then?" she asked, waiting as though she knew what the answer would be.
"Forty, forty-two at best." She laughed as though she hadn't laughed in a while, and that was a moment I captured in the depths of my memory. This was my sunset.
While wiping some runaway tears from her eyes, she asked me how old I was. I said, "Twenty-five." She seemed surprised but not reserved by the realization.
Just as I was about to ask her another question, the waiter from the train came in with a rolling board of refreshments, laden with alcohol.
He offered us some choices, but I declined and asked if there was orange juice or water.
"You don't drink?" she asked.
"No."
"Muslim?" she asked again.
"No, Catholic."
The waiter offered her some choices as well, but she declined.
I was about to tell her she didn't have to feel inclined to not drink on my account, but she said, "Muslim."
"Huh…" was all I mustered to say.
"Surprised?" she asked.
"A little. You look Colombian, and I would have pegged you for a Christian, Catholic actually," I said.
"Well, I'm Cuban, and I should say the same about you. You look like you're from the Middle East. Saudi or Iran would be my best guess, and I would have pegged you for a Muslim," she said.
"Qatar. And I hear you. My dad was a Muslim before he met my mother, an Irish literature professor who happened to be Catholic," I said.
"So he converted after they got married?" she asked.
"No, it was before. He never gets into the details of how it all happened. But he always says it was two things: grace and the approach to problem-solving that Muslims encouraged that always bothered him."
"I mean, as a Muslim myself, I understand the necessity of the approach to an extent and do agree with the reproach," she said.
"Why is that?" I asked. Elara was truly a blue moon, I thought to myself.
"Well, look at how degenerate the world is nowadays. Certain people need to be taught lessons the hard way and at the same time I get peoples' reservations, but sometimes you have to use force to get a desired outcome," she said.
"It's easy to incite violence, just as it is easy to lose one's temper. But to take the discerning approach the way that Jesus Christ did is difficult. To win a battle without spilling blood and do it with words and calm in the midst of storms, just as Christ, is something hard to attain and at the same time the most beautiful way to be," I said.
Together
They talked for hours about everything and nothing at the same time. He told her about his photography, and she shared her dreams of becoming a doctor. As the train approached the station, both felt an unspoken connection, something profound yet fragile.
The train finally arrived at Cinque Terre. Elara and Rex gathered their belongings, the reality of parting ways setting in. As the train doors opened, they exchanged a look that conveyed all the words they hadn't spoken.
"It was nice meeting you, Elara," Rex said softly.
"You too, Rex. Take care," Elara replied.
Rex reached into his pocket, pulling out a small notebook and pen. He scribbled something quickly, tearing the page and handing it to her. "Here's my contact. If you ever need a photographer…"
Elara took the note, but before she could read it, the train jolted to a stop. In the chaos of passengers disembarking, they were separated. She was pushed towards the exit by the crowd, the note slipping from her fingers and disappearing among the throng. She turned back, hoping to catch a final glimpse of Rex, but he was nowhere to be seen. She felt a pang of regret, but also a warmth from the connection they had shared.
Elara
As she stepped onto the platform, Elara felt the brisk evening air brush against her skin, a stark contrast to the warmth of the train. She looked around, searching for any sign of Rex, but he was lost in the sea of passengers. Her heart sank as she realized the note with his contact information was gone, trampled underfoot by the bustling crowd.
She lingered for a moment, hoping for a miracle, but the platform gradually emptied. With a heavy sigh, she picked up her suitcase and headed towards the station exit, her mind replaying their conversation. There was something magical about the connection they had shared, something that felt more profound than a simple chance encounter. Outside the station, her parents were waiting, their faces lighting up as they saw her. She forced a smile, not wanting to dampen their spirits with her disappointment.
"Elara, welcome home!" her mother exclaimed, pulling her into a warm embrace.
"It's so good to see you, kiddo," her father added, patting her shoulder.
"It's good to be home," Elara replied, though her thoughts were still with Rex.
Rex
Back on the train, Rex was frantically searching for Elara. The crowd had pushed him in the opposite direction, and by the time he realized what had happened, she was gone. He rushed to the platform, but she had already disappeared into the night. His heart sank as he looked down at the now-empty platform. He had felt a connection with Elara unlike anything he had experienced before. It wasn't just her beauty that captivated him; it was her intelligence, her wit, and the way she made him feel.
Rex left the station, feeling a mix of frustration and sorrow. As he walked through the streets of Cinque Terre, he tried to hold onto the memory of their time together. He had no way of contacting her, no way of knowing if he would ever see her again.
He wandered aimlessly, his mind replaying every moment of their conversation. Eventually, he found himself at a small café overlooking the sea. He sat down, ordered a coffee, and took out his camera. As he began to take pictures of the sunset, he felt a sense of calm wash over him. He realized that while their encounter had been brief, it had left an indelible mark on his heart.
Elara
Over the next few days, Elara tried to settle back into her routine, but her thoughts kept drifting back to Rex. She found herself wondering what he was doing, whether he was thinking about her too. She walked along the beach, the salty breeze reminding her of their conversation about sunsets.
One evening, while unpacking her suitcase, she found the Stephen King book she had been reading on the train. As she flipped through the pages, a photograph slipped out. It was a picture of a sunset over the sea, the one Rex had described to her. On the back, he had written a simple note: "To Elara, may you always find beauty in every sunset. –Rex"
She held the photo close, feeling a mixture of warmth and sadness. It was a small memento of their time together, a reminder of a connection that, though brief, had been meaningful.
* * *
And so, their story ended as it had begun- two strangers on a train, sharing a fleeting but unforgettable connection. A beautiful heartbreak, a reminder of the transient nature of life and the profound impact of brief encounters.
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