The Boy Who Sleeps Like Poetry

You can close your eyes to the world,

But not to the people

Who taught you how to see it.

The next morning, I told myself it was just another day.

That the sight of him yesterday had been an accident.

A one-off coincidence in a city where millions of footsteps cross every hour.

But I boarded earlier than usual.

It was ridiculous, really. I justified it in my head as wanting to find a seat, to avoid the crush of the later trains. But my heart knew better — it had sprinted ahead of my excuses and was already scanning the carriage before my eyes even lifted.

And there he was.

Same spot. Different t-shirt this time — plain white, loose at the sleeves, the neckline soft from wear. He was leaning back against the cold steel partition, eyes closed, earphones in, one dangling slightly where it had slipped from his ear. His head was tilted just enough that I could see the line of his jaw, the faint shadow of stubble.

It struck me that he looked… tired. Not just in the way you do after a long night, but in a deeper, quieter way — like someone who hadn’t rested properly in years.

I slipped into the space near him, pretending to scroll through my phone, pretending my heart wasn’t doing that ridiculous thing where it sped up at the smallest movement of his.

The train jolted forward, and with it, I lost balance for half a second. My hand reached out instinctively — and brushed his back.

Warm. Solid. Familiar in a way that hurt.

He didn’t move. Didn’t open his eyes. Didn’t flinch.

But something inside me stilled in that moment. I remembered the boy who used to call me at night, voice low and sleepy, just to tell me he couldn’t drift off without hearing mine. I remembered the countless afternoons when he’d fall asleep mid-conversation, head leaning on my shoulder, and I’d sit perfectly still so I wouldn’t wake him.

Now, he was asleep in front of me, but the distance between us was immeasurable.

The train rocked gently. People shuffled in and out at each stop. His breathing stayed steady, like the rest of the world couldn’t touch him. I kept wondering if I was part of that “rest of the world” now — something outside his reach, outside his care.

The stop before mine approached, and I moved toward the door. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him shift slightly, adjusting his earphones. His lashes lifted for just a second — and I swear his gaze flicked to me before drifting away again, almost like it had been by accident.

Almost. But that half-second stayed with me all day, like the echo of a word you almost heard.

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