Finding Him

Cumulonimbus.

I murmur it softly to myself, the word slipping out like a secret, knowing that no one else around me on the subway would understand it. They never do. The hum of the train, the faint rhythm of tired footsteps, and the distant murmur of conversation—everything is so achingly ordinary. Yet, I am anything but ordinary. I’ve always been the quiet one, the odd duck. I suppose it’s something I’ve accepted. The people I share my subway ride with, their faces masked in exhaustion, know this as well.

The train car is dense with bodies, the evening rush hour pulling us all towards the same unspoken end. My job as a stenographer doesn’t help matters. It’s mundane, lifeless—taking shorthand, typing notes at a fancy office building—nothing that demands more than my fingertips. My business degree, my graduation summa cum laude, all feel like distant echoes. I never asked for this life. But here I am, spending each day in the throes of discontent, earning the minimum wage that barely allows me to keep the weight of the world off my shoulders.

I laugh at myself. It’s hard to reconcile the idealism I once had with the reality of my days now. Still, I count my blessings. At least I have this job. At least I can pay rent and buy food. But I don’t have much else.

I used to tell Tina, my best friend, that love was a myth. Something dreamed up by poets and dreamers. “I’m just too cranky,” I would tell her. “No one can look past that. I don’t even know why I bother trying.”

But Tina always held onto hope for me. “You’re not cranky, Edith,” she would say, her voice warm with kindness. “You just haven’t met the right one yet.”

Sometimes, I wonder if she was right. But mostly, I laugh at the thought. What right one? There’s only one person who truly understands me, and that’s the voice inside my head. It’s been years since I’ve truly felt anything for someone. And yet… the possibility lingers. Like a shadow, elusive and distant, but always there.

Today, the world feels heavier than usual. I watch the clouds outside, the sky shifting into a darker hue. Cumulonimbus. I say it again, a quiet prayer. The storm is coming. I feel it. But in this moment, my thoughts are interrupted, pulled away by something else. Something…unexpected.

There, near the door, standing like a quiet disruption in the midst of the crowd, is a man who pulls my attention in a way that I cannot explain. He doesn’t shout for attention. His presence is subtle—effortless—but undeniable. It’s as though the air around him bends slightly, the hum of the train fading into the background. His eyes catch the light, dark and rich, and there’s something about him—something compelling—that stirs an unfamiliar flutter deep in my chest.

His name is Rupert, I think, though it’s a guess—a sharp pull of instinct, as if I know him somehow, though we’ve never spoken. His gaze meets mine, and for just a moment, it lingers. It’s not overt, not flirtatious. But there’s something in the way he watches me—an intensity, a quiet heat that sets the very air between us on fire.

I look at him properly, my heart quickening. He has an elegant calmness to him, something both restrained and magnetic. His jaw is sharp, a light scruff of beard along the edges. He holds himself like someone who is both comfortable in his own skin and yet somehow, at the same time, just out of reach. The sun filters through the window and catches the sharp lines of his cheekbones, giving him an almost celestial glow. His lips are full, their shape almost perfect, the kind of lips you’d want to trace with your fingers.

I look away quickly, self-conscious, but I feel the heat of his gaze still burning on me. A sudden, overwhelming awareness of him surges through me, making my pulse race in a way that has nothing to do with the tired train ride I’ve taken every day. His presence moves something inside me, stirs up a desire, a longing. I don’t know why. It’s ridiculous, isn’t it? We’ve never even spoken.

He shifts slightly, and my eyes flicker back to him involuntarily. He’s closer now. His scent is subtle but intoxicating—something woodsy and faintly spicy, like autumn leaves mixed with a distant trace of cologne. It wraps around me, making my skin feel warm and alive, and for the briefest moment, I wonder if he knows what his nearness is doing to me.

I look at him again, unsure of what to say, but the words don’t come. I’m caught in the electricity that crackles between us, something unspoken, something… raw. My thoughts scatter in disarray, only to be pulled back by the realization that my mouth has gone dry.

Say something, I think. But the words don’t come. Instead, I manage a small, awkward smile.

And then, to my surprise, he speaks first.

“Hi,” he says, his voice smooth, deep—like honey flowing through silk. His lips curl slightly, not in the way one might greet a stranger, but with something else, something suggestive in the subtle curve of his mouth. “It’s good to know you’re here.”

His words fall on me like a gentle touch, and my chest tightens. What does that mean? My heart skips a beat, caught in the undertow of his voice.

For a long moment, I stare at him, caught between the desire to speak and the fear of saying the wrong thing. But I can’t look away now, not when the space between us has thickened, charged with something I can’t quite define.

“I’ve noticed you before,” he continues, his gaze holding mine with an intensity that makes it hard to breathe. “You always seem lost in thought. Like you’re carrying something. It’s… intriguing.”

The words hang between us like a delicate thread, pulling us closer in the shared silence that follows. I can feel my heart pounding in my chest, the weight of his gaze heavy on my skin. It’s as if he’s peeled back the layers of my soul without even touching me. And somehow, I feel seen—truly seen—in a way that is both exhilarating and terrifying.

“I… think a lot,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. The words feel inadequate, like I’m hiding something behind them. Something more, something deeper that I don’t know how to express.

He smiles again, a slow, knowing smile, his eyes never leaving mine. “I get it,” he says. “But sometimes, it’s okay to let go of the weight. To… just be.”

His words settle over me like a touch, warm and gentle. My breath catches, and I almost reach out, not sure why or what I’m reaching for. The train slows to a stop, and Rupert’s presence seems to pull away, slipping back into the ordinary world around us.

But before he leaves, he turns to me one last time, his eyes dark with something unspoken. “Remember,” he says, his voice low and almost teasing, “life has a way of unfolding when you let go.”

And then he’s gone, leaving behind only the thrum of the train, but his words echo in the silence. For the first time in a long while, I realize that I feel something. A yearning, an awareness, a flame that had been dormant within me, now sparked to life by a chance encounter.

I glance out the window, watching the storm clouds now gathering overhead. Cumulonimbus, I whisper again, as the first drops of rain begin to fall, almost as if the sky understands the shift inside me.