If you’ve found yourself aboard the 6:15 train from Manhattan to Queens as frequently as I have, you’d soon become familiar with the faces that fill the cramped carriages, forming a burgeoning community of weary, yet resilient, New Yorkers.

You’d recognize the regulars—the woman with the perpetually furrowed brow, her designer handbag clutched tightly against her side, prepared to defend it against a sudden theft. You’d see the man seated across the aisle, sporting oversized earbuds, yet somehow never engaging with the music or podcast playing; he’d only stare blankly at the floor or through the smeared window, lost in his thoughts.

You’d wonder at the twenty-something with the edgy, angular bob haircut—a striking contrast to the subdued tones of the commuters around her—her fingers dancing across her laptop keyboard, furiously crafting emails or perhaps the next great novel.

You’d see these things, catch glimpses of their lives. Each ride, a revelation, an intimate, shared moment in the daily grind of city living

Then you’d see me, Bunmi Adeyemi, as just another face in this sea of New York commuters.

Exhausted after a day of peering into strangers’ mouths, my fingers cramped from holding dental tools, and my back ached from maintaining the perfect posture required to clean teeth effectively. Being a dental hygienist meant I spent my days in uncomfortable positions, asking questions to people who couldn’t answer because I had instruments in their mouths.

The irony wasn’t lost on me.

That Tuesday evening, I boarded the train at my usual time, my braids pulled up in a neat bun that was starting to give me a headache. February in New York meant layers—my wool peacoat over my scrubs, a scarf wound tightly around my neck, and gloves that I peeled off as the warm air of the subway car hit my face.

The train was more crowded than usual. A signal issue at 34th Street caused delays, leaving the platform crowded with impatient commuters. We all checked our watches and sighed dramatically as if our collective frustration might summon the train faster. When it finally arrived, we pushed in like sardines, personal space becoming a luxury none of us could afford.

I managed to find a spot standing near one of the doors, gripping the metal pole as the train lurched forward. The smell of wet wool and someone’s too-strong cologne filled my nostrils. Outside, the city was transforming in that magical hour when office lights began to illuminate the darkening sky, each window a tiny universe of activity.

Another evening, another commute back to an empty apartment.

I watched a couple pressed together at the far end of the car, her head resting comfortably on his shoulder. Must be nice.

My plans for the night stretched before me with depressing predictability: leftover pad Thai from yesterday’s takeout, the latest episode of that baking show everyone at work kept talking about, maybe a half-hearted attempt at the virtual yoga class my sister had gifted me for Christmas.

“For stress relief,” she’d said, though we both knew it was her way of saying, “Since you’re not dating anyone, you should at least have a hobby.”

Dating in New York? What a cosmic joke.

I’d been on three first dates in the past two months, each one more soul-crushing than the last. There was the investment banker who spent the entire dinner talking about his CrossFit routine while checking out the waitress; the graphic designer who still lived with four roommates at thirty-five and “forgot” his wallet; and the pediatrician who seemed perfect until he mentioned his wife was “totally cool with him seeing other people.” Right.

My mother had taken to sending me links to Nigerian dating sites, along with not-so-subtle reminders about my “biological clock.” As if being thirty-two and single in Queens was some kind of terminal condition.

What my traditional Nigerian parents couldn’t understand was that being single in New York wasn’t just about not having found “the one”—it was about navigating a city where everyone was too busy, too distracted, or too damaged to connect authentically. Where dating apps have turned people into commodities to be swiped through during a lunch break or a subway ride.

I stared at my reflection in the dark window, ghostly and transparent against the blur of the city beyond. Sometimes I wondered if that’s how men saw me too—just another transparent figure in a city of eight million stories, none of them interested in becoming entangled with mine.

“Excuse me,” a voice said, as the train took a particularly sharp turn, causing a slight domino effect of bodies. “Sorry about that.”

I turned to find myself looking up (yes, up—I’m five-foot-three on a good day) at a face I hadn’t seen on the 6:15 before. A man with warm brown eyes behind black-framed glasses, a jawline that could cut glass, and skin the color of polished cedar. He had a small silver hoop in one ear and wore a navy peacoat over what appeared to be a graphic tee featuring what I recognized as Basquiat’s crown.

“No problem,” I said, adjusting my grip on the pole. “I don’t think personal space exists on the New York subway anyway.”

He laughed, a rich sound that seemed to vibrate in the air between us. “True. I think we technically all consent to being sardines when we swipe our MetroCards.”

I smiled, feeling the fatigue of my day recede slightly. There was something about his presence that felt like a warm drink on a cold day—comforting and revitalizing.

“I’m Corey, by the way,” he said, extending a gloved hand in the minimal space between us.

“Bunmi,” I replied, giving his hand a quick shake.

“Bunmi,” he repeated, pronouncing it perfectly on the first try, which almost never happened. “That’s beautiful. Is it Nigerian?”

I raised an eyebrow, impressed. “Yoruba, yes. Good ear.”

“I had a roommate from Lagos in college,” he explained. “He taught me a few things. Mostly how to cook jollof rice and that I should never mess with a Nigerian mother.”

I laughed, the sound surprising me. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d laughed on my commute home. “Both very valuable lessons.”

The train stopped at 59th Street, and more people crammed in, pushing us closer together. I caught a whiff of his scent—something earthy and clean, like sandalwood.

“So, do you always take this train?” he asked, his face now just inches from mine due to the crowd.

“Every weekday,” I said. “I’m surprised I haven’t seen you before. I know most of the regulars, at least by face.”

“I usually catch the 5:45, but I got held up today.” He shifted his messenger bag, which I noticed was covered in pins—everything from political statements to obscure band logos. “Had to finish something.”

“Work?” I asked, noticing the way his eyes lit up at my question.

“Sort of. I had a line that wouldn’t leave me alone. Had to get it down before it vanished.” He grinned, somewhat self-consciously. “I’m a poet. Or trying to be, anyway.”

Of course, he is, I thought, though not unkindly. There was something so quintessentially New York about meeting a handsome poet on the subway. It was like the city had conjured him straight out of a rom-com set in Manhattan.

“What kind of poetry?” I asked, genuinely curious.

The question seemed to surprise him. Perhaps he was used to people dismissing his profession, or responding with that awkward “oh, that’s nice” that really meant “that’s not a real job.”

“Mostly spoken words, some written. I perform at a few spots in Brooklyn and the Village.” His fingers tapped a rhythm against the pole we both held. “I just got a chapbook accepted for publication, actually. Small press, but still.”

“Congratulations,” I said, and meant it. “That’s a big deal.”

“Thanks,” he said, his smile warming his entire face. “What about you? What do you do when you’re not riding the 6:15?”

“I’m a dental hygienist,” I said, watching for the usual reaction—the slight wince, the unconscious touching of the teeth, the sudden concern about whether their breath was fresh enough.

Instead, Corey nodded appreciatively. “The unsung heroes of dental health. My sister’s a hygienist in Chicago. Says she can tell everything about a person by looking at their molars.”

“She’s not wrong,” I said, laughing. “Teeth tell stories.”

I thought about Mrs. Abernathy, my last patient of the day, whose receding gums spoke of years of forgotten flossing and whose caffeine-stained teeth revealed her three-cup-a-day coffee habit. “You can see people’s habits, their stresses, their secrets.”

“That’s poetic,” Corey said, his eyes locking with mine in a way that made something flutter in my chest. “The biography of the body.”

The train lurched again, and Corey’s hand shot out to steady me, resting briefly on my arm. Even through layers of winter clothing, the contact felt electric.

“Sorry,” he murmured, though he didn’t look particularly apologetic.

“It’s fine,” I said, my voice coming out slightly breathier than I intended.

We fell into conversation as naturally as if we’d known each other for years. Corey told me about growing up in Philadelphia, moving to New York five years ago with nothing but two suitcases and a dream, working as a barista while performing poetry at open mics around the city. I told him about my Nigerian parents who had settled in Queens thirty years ago, my father a taxi driver, my mother a nurse, both of them bewildered by their daughter’s choice to spend her days looking into strangers’ mouths rather than pursuing medicine or law.

“They’ve come around,” I said, as the train rumbled beneath the East River. “Especially since I started making decent money. Though my mother still introduces me as ‘my daughter, the almost-dentist.'”

Corey laughed. “Parents have a way of reframing our choices to fit their narratives.”

“What do yours think about the poetry?”

A shadow crossed his face. “My dad doesn’t say much about it. My mom’s supportive, though I think she’s still holding out hope I’ll go to law school someday.” He shrugged. “But I’ve had poems published in The New Yorker and performed at the Nuyorican Poets Cafe. I’m making it work.”

There was a quiet determination in his voice that I found deeply attractive. New York was full of people with dreams, but there was something about the way Corey spoke about his poetry—not with the desperate hunger of someone chasing fame, but with the steady passion of someone who had found their purpose.

What would it be like, I wondered, to hear him perform? To watch him on stage, vulnerable and powerful all at once, sharing pieces of his soul through carefully chosen words? The thought sent a warm current through me that had nothing to do with the overheated subway car.

The train emerged from underground, crossing the bridge to Queens, and the midnight skyline of Manhattan spread out before us, a constellation of lights against the black velvet of night. Corey followed my gaze to the window.

I pressed my palm against the cool glass, watching my breath create a temporary fog as the spectacle unfolded outside. At this hour, Manhattan was transformed into something ethereal—a galaxy anchored to earth.

The Empire State Building stood as its center point, its spire a beacon of white light cutting through the darkness, surrounded by thousands of illuminated windows stacked in perfect geometric patterns.

The financial district glowed at the southern tip, its buildings outlined in light like architectural blueprints brought to life. Massive digital billboards in Times Square pulsed with color even from this distance, a neon heartbeat visible for miles. Office buildings stood with their lights arranged in curious patterns—some floors completely dark, others fully illuminated where night shifts continued or cleaning crews worked their way through empty corridors.

“It never sleeps, does it?” Corey whispered, his face bathed in the reflected glow from across the water.

I shook my head, mesmerized by the streaming headlights of taxis moving like luminous insects through the grid of streets. Below us, the East River was a rippling obsidian mirror, doubling the city’s brilliance in distorted reflections.

“That’s one of my favorite views yet,” I said, pointing to the Brooklyn Bridge, its distinctive suspension cables outlined in light, connecting one borough to another as intricate as a neural pathway.

Corey smiled, nodding, his warm breath a soothing embrace.

As our train continued into Queens, the windows of our car became a moving frame for this nocturnal portrait. The rattling of the tracks provided a rhythmic soundtrack as Manhattan slowly receded, its skyline compressing into a single luminous entity on the horizon. Yet even as the distance grew, its magnetic presence remained, a lighthouse calling across the darkness.

The passengers around us sat in the dim light of the train car, faces illuminated by phone screens, most oblivious to the magnificent display outside—a reminder that even the most spectacular sights could become ordinary through repetition.

But not for me. Not tonight.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” he said softly. “No matter how many times I see it, it never gets old.”

“It’s why I can’t imagine living anywhere else,” I admitted. “Even on the worst days, there’s always a moment—usually on this bridge—when I remember why I love this city.”

“‘The city seen from the Queensboro Bridge is always the city seen for the first time, in its first wild promise of all the mystery and beauty in the world,'” Corey quoted.

“Fitzgerald,” I said, recognizing the line from The Great Gatsby. “You really are a poet.”

He looked at me with surprise and something like admiration.

“English major?”

“Just a reader,” I said. “My apartment is basically a library with a bed.”

“A woman after my own heart,” he said, and though the phrase was casual, something in his tone made me wonder if he meant it more literally than figuratively.

The train slowed as we approached the next station. Queensboro Plaza. Not my stop, but apparently his, as he adjusted his messenger bag.

“This is me,” he said, sounding almost regretful.

“Oh,” I said, trying to hide my disappointment. We’d been talking for only about fifteen minutes, but it had felt like stepping into a warm room after being out in the cold—comfortable, natural, necessary.

As the doors opened, Corey hesitated. The crowd began to push past him, eager to exit, but he stood still, his eyes on mine.

“It was really nice meeting you, Bunmi,” he said, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

“You too, Corey,” I replied, wondering if he could hear my heart, which seemed to be beating unusually loudly in my chest.

He stepped onto the platform, turning back to face me as the doors began to close. Our eyes met through the glass, and he raised a hand in a small wave. I waved back, eagerly.

Perhaps a little too eagerly.

As the train pulled away, I felt an unexpected sense of loss. He should have asked for my number. Or should I have asked? I reached for my phone, thinking of distracting myself with emails or social media, but instead found myself staring at my reflection in the darkened train window.

Why didn’t he ask for my number? The thought resurfaced unbidden. We’d had a connection—I was sure of it. The way our conversation flowed, the lingering eye contact, the subtle flirtation…I wasn’t imagining it, was I?

Maybe he wasn’t single. Maybe he wasn’t interested in women. Maybe he simply didn’t feel what I had felt—that rare and instant chemistry that makes the chaotic world of New York suddenly seem smaller, more navigable, fuller of possibility.

As my stop approached, my heart swelled with hope, repeated flashes of our shared glimpse of the Brooklyn Bridge.

I found myself hoping that maybe, just maybe, through the comfort of routine, this city, in all its vast, improbable magic, would grant us another chance.

I stepped off the train into the cold February evening.

Filled with thoughts.

Filled with hopes.