text: I love to watch people. I know how it sounds, but let me explain. I love to take a simple glance at a stranger and invent their entire life story. That woman you queued behind at the supermarket? She’s a single mother, her three children, all under the age of 5, struggling to survive. Of course, I could be, and most likely am, completely wrong. She might be heading home to her spouse, or to an empty house, or even to no house at all. I have no idea. But I have instinct. I have this odd feeling that I’m right. Each and every time. Deep down, I know that each observation I make is entirely true. And in my profession, it makes all the difference. Things have been slow recently. I’ve been slow. None of my stories seem quite right. That was, until, I saw her. She sat across from me on the metro, staring down at her phone. It was nothing out of the ordinary. But then, she moved. She flipped her hair back, read something off of her phone, and smiled. It was brief. Only for a second did that grin cross her face. But I saw it. And it made all the difference. My mind began to spin, running through every single possibility I could conjure up. Maybe a family member was having a baby? Maybe she was having a baby? Or maybe it was something simple, an “I love you” from the one she cares about, perhaps. Or maybe, just maybe, it was something sick. Something twisted. The passing of a loved one. A friend in danger. Maybe she smiled so briefly because she knew it was wrong. But this thought exited my mind as quickly as it had appeared. What were the chances of this woman being a sociopath? Highly unlikely. Of course, it was something mundane. Like a turning cog in my head, I waited for my brain to land on an explanation. And then it came. Her loved one was far away. Much too far away to keep a stable relationship. But they had. And the smile? The reasoning was simple. I was almost dismayed at how long it took me to work it out. Her lover was coming back to her. Whether they were taking the next flight or had only just booked, I had no idea. But that was her story. Do you see? Do you see now why I love this so much? I can ignore my boring life and think about all the adventures that other people have. I began to imagine the reunion. Maybe they would embrace. Maybe she would drop whatever she was holding and run towards them, like in a movie. Or maybe she would simply smile, like she had just then. I didn’t know. I can’t tell the future; just the present. I sighed, my shoulders falling, a small, brief smile gracing my face. Just like hers. For the remainder of the ride, I stayed deep in thought about this girl and her mystery lover. That was, until, the train came to a grinding halt at the station. I knew it wasn’t my stop, so I started to close my eyes, leaning back more in my chair. But she stood. She stood up, brushing the dust from her lap and beginning to make her way towards the platform. I told myself it didn’t matter; that I didn’t care about this stranger. But I did. I cared more about her and her story than anything in my life. I had to know. So I stood. I brushed the dust from my lap. And I followed her onto the platform. And all the way home. I had no idea where I was, but I didn’t even care. My mind was clouded by excitement, at anticipation for seeing how this story continued. She paused outside one of the homes, most likely hers, and turned. She looked one way down the street, and then the other. And then down at her watch. What was she waiting for? Or who was she waiting for? My heart began to pound. It was almost ironic; I thought I must have been more excited than her. I - no, we, - waited there for almost an hour. Nobody came. I was angry. Disappointed. In fact, scratch that - I was furious. How could they have left me hanging like this? Left on the edge of my seat, barely even breathing, and they had disappointed me. Of course they had. They always did. But she looked worse. She had crumpled down onto the concrete, head in her knees, sobbing. It was muffled from across the street, but I could tell she was weeping. She lifted her head up for a moment - the same way she had lifted her head on the train - and I saw the tears lining her face like a periwinkle glitter. Before I could even tell what I was doing, I took a step into the street. And another. And another. And before I knew it, I was sprinting towards this poor, poor girl. She didn’t know me, of course, but she needed the comfort. She needed my comfort. And she was going to get it. I realised how close I was standing to her, towering over her crumpled figure like some kind of twisted, humanoid lighthouse. She didn’t even lift her head. Rude, I thought, but she was sad. I couldn’t blame her. I knelt down, my knees rough against the concrete pavement. Should I speak? I tried. I opened my mouth, my throat dry and lips chapped, but no sound came from my decaying mouth. Not even a hoarse groan. Nothing. So instead. I raised my skeletal hand to her shoulder. I’m so sorry this had to happen to you, I thought in my head. No one deserves this. And as my hand fell, fell towards her shoulder, it never hit. I phased straight through her. Like always. My piteous smile turned into a grimace. My other hand swung up, down through her back, and into the concrete. I tried to grab her face, to lift up her beautiful head, to wipe away the tears, but all I felt was air. My love, I’m sorry, I tried to scream. I didn’t mean to leave you here alone. I tried to come, I did, I swear. I just never made it. It wasn’t my fault, but it also isn’t yours. You could never do anything wrong. My love. My love. My love. I shut my eyes tight, praying, wishing, begging I could embrace her once more. Pleading with the universe to allow me to explain myself. And yet, when I opened my eyes; nothing had changed. I’m back on the metro, sat across from the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen. She flips her hair and smiles; smiles at my text message. I can’t wait to see you again, it reads. She types back. I never get her message. Because a block away from her home, I’m dead with a bullet wound in my head. Tossed away like garbage in a back alley. She never gets to embrace me. I can never embrace her. So all I can do is observe. Over and over. Forever.