Three seconds

Three seconds.

That's all it took—

the moment I looked at the reflection

and found their eyes already there,

already waiting for mine.

I wasn't supposed to be visible.

I was supposed to be the person

who dissolves into the morning crowd,

who gets on the train and becomes

part of the hum, the blur,

nobody looking, nobody looking back.

But they were looking.

They didn't break the eye contact.

They held it.

Three seconds is a long time

when someone is looking at you

and you're not sure why.

My chest got tight.

I turned away first—

because that's what you do

when you realize you're being seen

by a stranger and you don't have

an explanation for existing.

I didn't get off at my stop.

I got off two stops early

because I couldn't sit there anymore,

knowing they were still looking,

still seeing me, still waiting for me

to look back again.

Now I don't take that train.

Now I take the bus that's always late

and smells like wet carpet and someone's

forgotten coffee.

Now I don't have to be seen.

Now I can dissolve back into

the blur, the hum, the beautiful

invisibility.

But sometimes on the new bus,

I catch someone's eye by accident,

and I remember: there is no invisibility.

There is only the moment before

someone looks at you

and changes everything.