The subway during the evening rush hour was like a weary gray snake, slowly slithering through the city\u2019s bowels. Ian leaned against a corner of the car, listening to lyric-free white noise through his headphones, trying to shut out the crowded throng around him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He was so tired. Not physically tired, but that kind of weariness that clings to your skin like wet clothes\u2014a weariness he couldn\u2019t shake off.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The train made an unscheduled stop at an unnamed small station. The lights flickered for a moment, and the silhouettes in the car seemed to stretch out before snapping back into place in an instant. Ian closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, he noticed a man sitting in the seat across from him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The man was wearing a dark gray trench coat identical to Ian\u2019s, carrying the same model of briefcase, and even the angle at which his tie hung askew was exactly the same.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The only difference was that the man\u2019s eyes were bright.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Ian froze for a moment and instinctively touched his own face. The man across from him made the same gesture, but the corners of his mouth turned up slightly, revealing a relaxed smile that Ian hadn\u2019t seen in a long time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cDon\u2019t be nervous,\u201d the man said. His voice sounded as if it were coming from far away, yet also as if it were echoing directly inside Ian\u2019s mind. \u201cI\u2019m just the part of you that you\u2019ve lost.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Ian opened his mouth, then realized he wasn\u2019t surprised. In this city encased in steel and glass, losing something seemed only natural.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhat have I lost?\u201d Ian asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou\u2019ve lost \u2018permission.\u2019\u201d The man pointed out the window at the pitch-black tunnel. \u201cYou allow yourself to be on time, to be right, to fit seamlessly into this massive machine. But the one thing you don\u2019t allow yourself is to miss a subway train on a Tuesday night, simply because you don\u2019t feel like talking.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The train swayed gently, as if sighing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cActually\u2026 I really hate these days,\u201d \u201d Ian whispered. He\u2019d kept this thought buried in his heart for three years, never sharing it with anyone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI know.\u201d The man across from him stood up and placed his briefcase at his feet. \u201cIt\u2019s okay to hate it. When you don\u2019t feel like trying, just sit by the roadside and watch the clouds for a while, or, like now, zone out in the tunnel for ten minutes. The sky won\u2019t fall, and the earth won\u2019t stop spinning.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The man took a step forward, and his figure began to fade, like a drop of ink falling into clear water.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cDon\u2019t come looking for me,\u201d he said, his voice fading away. \u201cTake this little bit of \u2018indifference\u2019 I\u2019ve given you, and keep moving forward.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The lights suddenly flared to life.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The seat across from him was empty, with only the billboards outside the window rushing by, their lights flickering on and off across Ian\u2019s face.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cNext stop, Central Square,\u201d the announcement rang out, flat and mechanical.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Ian took off his headphones. The train car was still crowded, the air still thick with the damp scent of umbrellas and the sound of weary breathing. But he felt a weight lift from his shoulders, as if he\u2019d shed an invisible backpack.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He pulled out his phone and sent a message to his boss, who was always pushing him to meet deadlines:<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cNo overtime tonight. I want to go to the park and feed the pigeons for a while.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Send. Lock screen.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The train burst out of the tunnel, and ahead lay a sea of lights, like a constellation scattered across the earth. Ian looked at his reflection in the window and smiled softly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
This time, he didn\u2019t look away.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
A Reconciliation with Myself<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":431,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[4],"tags":[23,18],"class_list":["post-430","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-heal","tag-feeling","tag-story"],"acf":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/storyrecyclebin.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/430","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/storyrecyclebin.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/storyrecyclebin.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/storyrecyclebin.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/storyrecyclebin.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=430"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/storyrecyclebin.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/430\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":432,"href":"https:\/\/storyrecyclebin.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/430\/revisions\/432"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/storyrecyclebin.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/431"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/storyrecyclebin.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=430"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/storyrecyclebin.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=430"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/storyrecyclebin.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=430"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}