If you saw yourself on a passing train, would you struggle to focus on a speck in the distance, already disappearing from sight even as the lines come into focus? Would you wonder long after it was gone what it was that had made you think it was you? Was it something in the posture, both soft and stubborn–less a choice to stand, more a refusal to do what is asked of it? Was it the way the hair fell into its face: different, now, and yet still ruffled, not-quite-done, the right side shorter than the left? Perhaps it was the color of the sweater: still the perfect sea-green it had been before you put it through the wash one too many times? Or maybe it was the way that it drew its face closer to the glass in a sudden movement that caught the light, an urgency as if hoping to one day see you again?