It’s 4:30 on a Friday, and misty outside. The tops of moderately tall buildings are stuck in an overarching, wet cloud. A fine rain spits from the sky and the cars down below have their lights on in the darkened daylight. The air has been balmy for the past week, before blowing out of town at the whim of the lake.

I can feel the dark weather reflected on my face. half an hour away from walking through the spitting rain with narrowed eyes. Swaying with the jolt of the train, staring forward with all of the other people staring forward.

You can always tell who has somewhere to be. The guy who wears sunglasses indoors, and a tie but no jacket. Flipping through his phone as if he were searching for the answer to a question that holds his life in the balance. In reality, probably taking a Buzzfeed quiz to find out what type of cake he would be. Surprise, he’s a cupcake. And there is the business woman standing on the train in her power pencil skirt holding on to a pole, her heels staggered in a solid stance. Hair freshly sprayed before she left work to eliminate that bummer “just off the train” look for whoever she is returning to. There is even the old man who has fallen asleep against the glass by the door who shows signs of returning home. Mouth slightly agape, his sleepy hands barely cling to the plastic bag that has empty Tupperware in it.

And there’s me, somehow always wearing a vest, listening to Dashboard Confessional Pandora like a 15 year old in 2002, knowing that I am headed home to only me.

Luciana, 29