She had seen him looking at her, his brown eyes tracking her movements as their bodies rattled inside of the train.
Each day he seemed to move closer, becoming more daring. At first she was only flattered, catching his eyes in thanks as they left the train and went off to their separate worlds. Soon, it seemed she knew him. Knew him in the swaying of his body as he gripping the rail, and in the lifting, flick of his wrist to look at the watch with the brown, leather strap, and how her hair would stand on end as the gaze of his eyes left tiny pin pricks at the back of her neck.
His actions were silent love letters that touched her through the narrow space of the train.
Today, of all days, he chose to stand next to her, his hand sitting at his hip with fingers curled out towards her. It seemed to her that those fingers wanted to be touched.
She felt the pulse of him,
in that space between them.
It was warm and frantic, frenzied with the possibilities that came with the scant brush of fingertips.
She extended her pinky, stopping it a fraction from his. The energy pulsed. Her spine tingled.
And yet she saw the impossible space between his fingers and the quiet, unmoving stillness of his body, and did not know how she could possibly fill it.