Things That Go On in My Head During My Morning Metro Ride

I think I’m writing all of this down because yesterday was my last day at work, and this morning, as soon as I woke, not travelling in the metro bothered me. LOL

Yesterday was not my last metro ride, though. I know there will be many more. But it will be the last time I board the train at this hour, carrying the same routine and heading to the same destination.

You consciously reflect on your routines only when they’re about to change.

Every morning, I board the metro at similar time.

I know exactly where to stand on the platform, and how many stations are left before I need to gather my things and run to the exit booth to avoid long queue to punch the metro card. The journey has become so familiar that my body could probably do it on autopilot.

My mind, however, is a different story.

Some mornings, I spend the entire ride structuring my day. I mentally think of tasks, decide which tasks need my attention first, and convince myself that today will be the day I finally become one of those organised people who have everything under control.

Other mornings, I doom-scroll.

I watch videos I’ll forget by lunchtime, read comments from strangers, read random arguments on reddit, and somehow end up learning facts I didn’t need to know. The metro moves forward, and so does my thumb.

Sometimes, I search for tattoo inspiration.

A tiny line drawing. A quote in a serif font. A minimal symbol that apparently represents an entire phase of life. By the end of the ride, I have twenty new ideas saved and absolutely no clarity on what I actually want.

Occasionally, I open Duolingo.

For a few stations, I am enthusiastically learning Swedish.

And then there are the people.

I cannot help but make up stories about them.

The woman, drenched in sweat and constantly checking the time on her phone? Maybe she’s running late for an important meeting.

The woman with a bouquet of sunflowers? She is either going on a first date or meeting someone she hasn’t seen in years, but who goes on a date at nine in the morning, or maybe it’s her friend’s birthday.

The kid with a cricket kit, almost as heavy as him, when does he go to school though?

And then there are the phone conversations.

I absolutely love overhearing them.

Not the entire conversations, of course, just fragments.

That’s all I need.

Within seconds, I’ve built an entire storyline. Someone is hiding a secret. Someone is in trouble. Someone is definitely gossiping about a mutual friend. I spend a few stations joining the dots, filling in the missing details, and creating elaborate plots that are probably nowhere close to reality.

By the time the person hangs up, I’ve usually invented a far more dramatic version of their life than the truth could ever be.

The truth is, I know absolutely nothing about these people.

But for a few minutes every morning, they become characters in stories I create simply because we’re all sharing the same compartment.

And then, very occasionally, reality interrupts.

A few weeks ago, I looked up and recognised an acquaintance I hadn’t seen in nine years.

Nine years.

We spoke only briefly, exchanging the usual questions about work and life. But for the rest of the journey, I couldn’t stop thinking about how strange time is. Someone who once occupied such a familiar corner of your life can suddenly reappear between two metro stations, as though those years had quietly folded into each other.

That’s the thing about the morning metro.

You board, expecting nothing more than a commute.

But every day, it becomes something else.

For forty minutes every morning, I’m not entirely at home and not yet at work. I’m simply in transit, suspended somewhere in between.

They were one of the few parts of my day that belonged entirely to me. Just me, a metro compartment full of strangers, and a mind that refused to stay in one place.