Reading

She entered the train with smiling eyes. The color of her eyes was matching her bag. She took out her notebook and started scribbling some lines. I couldn't read. More than what she was writing, I'd like to read her thoughts. Who was she? What was she thinking now? Was she happy? I was probably asking the questions she has never asked herself. But something weird, something disturbing, something reluctant about her stopped me. I could neither continue trying nor could take my eyes off of her.

I found it amazing to look at my own reflection on the window of the train.