On a Metro Ride Home

By Shreya

 I see birds perched in a single line,

 watching kites fly.

 As onlookers, immersed,

 I reckon, if they could, they'd place bets.

 The sky—it's the same blue as in my drawings,

 deceptively simple: no streaks, no complexities.

 A metro hinders my view.

 For seconds, I peer inside.

 A couple listens to music—how strange it would be

 if they and I were hearing the same band right now.

 A boy stands against the door,

 eyes fixed on a novel.

 I squint and realize it's the same one

 I finished just a week ago.

 If only I could witness his reaction

 when he reaches the last page.

 A woman grips the handle firmly,

 her tiredness sprawled across her face.

 Yawning would seem redundant.

 I catch my reflection in the glass—

 blurry, slouched, my posture defined by fatigue.

 I'm glad I'm almost invisible,

 a ghost among strangers.

 Why is it that with friends I long to vanish,

 And among strangers, I find this familiarity?

 I turn to the window again.

 The world feels as if it's crafted purely for my fascination,

 as though someone has suspended that spider midair—

 its web shimmering in golden sunlight,

 angled perfectly, like a fleeting masterpiece.

 Just for me.

 It seems too perfect to be a coincidence.

 I breathe,

 smile,

 and sigh.

 The ride will end soon.

 I hold this quiet joy

 just a little longer.

By Shreya