you can call me star ;)

The first thing you notice about her is the way she watches reflections instead of people. You catch it in the train window- your own face clouding over hers, your tired eyes and purple eye bags floating somewhere near her shoulder. She’s looking at the glass, not directly at you, like she’s searching for something.

You look away first.

The train rattles somewhere between “charming European countryside” and “definitely the middle of nowhere.” You weren’t supposed to get on this train. You were supposed to get on the earlier one, the faster one that didn’t involve questionable upholstery and a man across the aisle eating tuna straight from the can. You’re not supposed to be on this train at all really. You’re supposed to be at home, doing something mundane like laundry or grocery shopping, but instead, you’re here.

And so is she. She’s wearing black- of course she is. Not in a dramatic brooding way, more in a “this fabric won’t show blood or coffee stains” way. Practical. Her red hair is tucked behind one ear, but a few strands have escaped, softening what is otherwise a face carved from cool disinterest. You tell yourself not to stare, but it proves to be quite difficult. There’s so many details to take in.

“You’re very subtle,” she says without turning her head.

Your soul leaves your body for a brief moment. “I was staring at the countryside,” you reply quickly.

“We’re in a tunnel.”

You focus your eyes to the window and find that the train is, in fact, going through a tunnel. It’s pitch black out.

“Mhm, very scenic. I love tunnels actually.”

You think you see the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth. It’s definitely not a smile, but it’s something, and you count that as a victory. She finally turns to look at you properly. Green eyes, sharp jaw, rigid, curious in a way that feels a little dangerous, like she’s sizing you up and double checking the math.

“Why are you on this train?” she asks.

“Budget constraints and poor decision making,” you say. “You?”

A pause. “Work.”

“Ah. The mysterious kind?”

She tilts her head. “Is there another kind?”

“Accounting,” you offer.

“I’ve seen men cry over spreadsheets,” she says flatly. “It’s a dangerous job.”

A few heads turn, like they can feel the stagnant air between the two of you. Her attention remains pinned to you like a thumbtack through paper. There’s something about her that feels lonely. Not in a sad, obvious way, more like she’s solitary by choice. Permanently braced for impact. You don’t know why you sat next to her. There were plenty of other open seats next to far more normal people.

“Are you running toward something,” you ask lightly, “or away from it?”

Her expression doesn’t change. “That’s a bold question.”

“I’m a bold person.”

“You’re on the wrong train.”

“Bold and bad at logistics.”

That almost tug of a smile again. The tunnel ends and light floods back through the compartment. For a split second, you see her more clearly- a faint scar peeping over the collar of her jacket, her hands braced on the chair, her body angled towards the aisle like she’s waiting for something to happen. She studies you like you’re a puzzle she didn’t expect to enjoy.

“You ask a lot of questions,” she says.

“It’s a coping mechanism.”

“For?”

“Existing.”

A silence stretches between you, like she’s weighing her options.

“If you keep moving, nothing can catch up to you,” she says bluntly.

You cock your head. “Does it work?”

“Sometimes. But you don’t seem like someone who runs.”

“If you’re calling me boring, I’m offended. And I do run. I absolutely do.” You’re not quite sure what you’re referring to, or why you’re spilling so much to a complete stranger. Sometimes trains become liminal spaces like that. Spaces where things begin to slip through the cracks.

“Not from me,” she says testingly.

Your heart does something inconvenient. “I don’t know you,” you reply.

“You’re still here.”

You swallow. There’s something magnetic about her, sure, but you’re vulnerable and she’s a mystery. You know getting wrapped into something or someone may not be the smartest decision here.

“I could be a terrible person,” she adds casually.

“I guess you could,” you shrug, desperate to keep the conversation light.

She just searches your face for a moment, an action that feel likes waiting before a judge to decide your fate. You feel suddenly nervous, maybe because of her, maybe because you’re regretting your decision.

You clear your throat. “If you are running, I hope it’s towards something better.” You look away, ending the conversation. Yes, that’s good. No beautiful strangers, nothing tying you anywhere.

“And you?” she asks, despite your attention averting back to the window. “What are you running toward?”

You think about missed trains and missed opportunities. You should’ve made up your mind quicker, gotten on the earlier train to avoid whatever reflection this interaction is forcing upon you. Maybe you should’ve just stayed home. With your ex. In the apartment. That you share. You think of telling the woman beside you that you just couldn’t handle it anymore, that you’d moved to the city for her, that you’d passed up your dream job for her and that’s why you’re running. Running is grandiose for this situation. You barely have anything but your bag and the clothes on your back. It’s a futile attempt really. And you know that. But it still means something at least. The past few months had felt like everyone else got a map and you didn’t. A guide to survive life post grad. You’re breaking, but you’d never admit that to anyone.

“I don’t know yet,” you say finally.

The train begins to slow, a small station approaching. It’s small and forgettable and then you realize you don’t even know where you are. She stands, smoothing down her coat and grabbing a small bag from the overhead rack. She looks down at you, hesitates.

“Try to take the right train next time.” It sounds almost fond.

“Mistakes are part of the journey,” you respond.

Then, to your surprise, she leans down slightly, close enough that you can smell something clean and sharp- like winter air.

“Be careful,” she says quietly. “You ask too many questions.

You tilt your head. “You answer them.”

She smiles properly, the first time she has this entire ride. It transforms her, makes her look younger. Lighter. The train doors hiss open. She steps towards them and then pauses.

“If you ever find what you’re running toward,” she says without turning around. “I hope it’s worth sticking around for.

And then she’s gone. The doors close and the train rumbles. You sit there, staring at your own reflection in the window. Your heart is beating a little too fast, your face burning. You don’t know her name. But you’re not thinking about going back anymore. You’re thinking about the next stop and whether, maybe, you’ll choose to get off. Maybe this was a good choice, maybe she was a sign. Maybe you’re supposed to disappear for a little bit.

By the time the train comes to another stop, you’ve almost convinced yourself she was a sleep-deprived hallucination brought on by stale train air and unresolved emotional baggage. Almost. The station is small, one platform beneath a flickering light. A vending machine that looks like it’s lost custody of its own will to live. It’s late. The kind of late where your footsteps sound louder than they should and every shadow feels like it might materialize into something sinister. You wonder if your ex has noticed you’re gone. Of course she has. You wonder if she’s doing anything about it.

You adjust your bag on your shoulder and step off the platform and into the street. Cold air bites your face. You exhale, watching your breath curl upward like a ghost. New city, fresh start. At least for now. Even if it’s just temporary, even if you suddenly become logical and force yourself to go back home.

You make it approximately twelve steps before walking directly into someone. It’s not a gentle bump, more of a “I was looking at Google Maps and not my surroundings” kind of collision. You bounce back. They don’t.

“Oh my God- I’m so sorry, I wasn’t looking, I-”

“You should.”

You freeze. That voice. You look up slowly, and of course. Of course it’s her. Standing under a dim streetlight, like she’s been personally curated by the universe for dramatic timing. Black coat. Red hair catching the light. Expression frantic in a way that makes your chest tighten.

“You got off an hour ago,” you say.

“I did.” She responds quickly, but she’s not looking at you. Her eyes are darting through the darkness behind you and to your right.

“You don’t live here.”

“Nope.”

“Are you following me?”

Her eyes seem to catch on something and then she reaches out, grabbing your arm and pulling you towards her. “No, I’m not,” she narrows her eyes, the reserved stranger you knew on the train suddenly no more. She’s fierce in a way that has you bordering on panic. “And I was really stupid for talking to you on the train, I-” she looks up again quickly and you try to turn your head to see what she’s looking at, but she stops you. “You need to come with me right now.”

“Sorry, what?” but she’s pulling you down the street, tugging your arm until you fall into stride with her.

“My name is Natasha,” she says quickly without looking at you, her hands rustling with something in her coat. You tell her your name, but she barely acknowledges it, her focus clearly on something else.

“Why the fuck am I following you again?”

She shoots you a look and then you hear the cocking of a gun from underneath her coat. Your eyes go wide and she gives you a look that says “keep moving”.

“I- fuck,” she hesitates. Your mind starts racing. Maybe she really is as mysterious as you were making her out to be. She continues to hastily scan her surroundings, one hand now out of her coat and back on your arm, the other holding what you presume is a gun. “I’m working,” she says flatly, like she’s decided against making something up. “I’m on a job and I got a little distracted.”

“A job? People normally just have jobs, they aren’t typically on jobs-”

“Would you give it a rest?” she shoots you a quick glare. “I’m planted here on purpose, I calculated a tip off point where they were supposed to find me, but I got off on the stop before instead.” She talks quickly, as if you understand a single word she’s saying. “It wasn’t until I got off the train that I realized how many brutes were on it. They should’ve gotten me while I was on it, but they didn’t. They think you’re me.”

“Excuse me?”

“They don’t know what I look like, that’s the whole point,” Natasha says with a hint of annoyance. “They think you’re me, and leaving you to die would’ve been great for my mission actually, it would’ve thrown them right off my trail- but I didn’t, I can’t.”

“Thanks I think.” The city approaches, the street lights becoming more frequent and the bustle of people becoming louder.

“Just keep your head down,” Natasha says firmly. And you do, letting her lead you through the streets, her grip on your arm loosening as the two of you get lost in the crowd. In any other situation you’d feel absolutely terrified. If you didn’t want to get away from your old life so badly, maybe you’d be horrified at this sudden side quest. But it’s more exhilarating than anything. You and Natasha walk for what feels like forever, until she swiftly pulls you down a dark alley.

“If you’re planning on killing me, make it quick.” You say it jokingly, but her lack of response makes your skin prick.

You trample through the darkness until she comes to a hard stop, flipping a switch and punching in what sounds like a code on a keypad. You hear the sound of a heavy metal door opening, and then a faint sliver of light peeks through the alley. She tugs you through a doorway, pushing a large red button with the palm of her hand, forcing the door closed behind her. You’re in a small hallway, with another metal door and just a single flickering overhead light. Perfect murder room. Natasha digs out a set of keys from her jacket pocket, the gun seemingly gone now. Part of you thought she was lying at first, that this whole secret agent thing was just a front to get you to hook up with her. But the dual security starts to make you think otherwise.

She gets the door open and pushes through. You follow her, straight into a big open room. A flat. And a nice one too. As nice as a windowless, concrete loft can get. You walk past her into the open room and you hear the keys being tossed onto a table and the door closing behind you. You think you hear her let out an exhausted huff, but you’re too busy taking in the scene. The loft could easily be sterile, almost medical with the gray walls and floors, but there’s sashes hanging from the ceiling, scarves tied together, strung across the walls adorned with tiny little string lights.

“Cool place,” you say with a shrug.

“Uh-huh.” Natasha walks past you, tearing off her coat and hanging it on a rack. Your eyes follow her as she walks across the room and into what you assume is the kitchen.

“So,” you call out, backpack still on, rocking back and forth on your heels.

“I have a spare bed,” Natasha calls out. She comes back into the room with a glass of water, handing it to you. “Here.”

“Thanks,” you mumble, taking it and taking a sip. The entire situation still isn’t registering, probably because you still don’t fully believe her.

Natasha just stares at you for a moment. She doesn’t look like that woman on the train anymore. She’s different, harder. “There’s food in the fridge, help yourself. Room’s around the corner, I’m going out.”

“Is this some weird human trafficking front or something?”

“What? No,” she scoffs. “I’m just going to scan the perimeter, I’ll be back in a bit.”

“Scan the perimeter?”

“Did you listen to me at all?”

“Kind of.”

“I’m trying to help you. If you want to leave, be my guest.” She pulls on a different jacket, a blue one, and a large white scarf. You believe her, you think. Probably.

“So, what- I’m just here until you let me out?”

“You’re here until it’s safe,” Natasha says absentmindedly, pulling on a pair of boots.

“I came here to exist in a new city, not a new dungeon.”