I rode the same metro every day I was in Paris—the pink 7 metro. I watched as older couples got on and off with matching shoes, hand in hand, moving with a quiet, wordless coordination that spoke of years spent together. There was a soft elegance in the way they moved, a visible comfort in one another that somehow looked effortless yet took a lifetime to build. Younger couples would get on too, often standing face to face, gazing into each other’s eyes as though the world around them had faded away, lost in whispered words and shared glances. They held each other close, instinctively bracing each other against the gentle sway and lurch of the train as if they knew instinctively they were better off steadying one another than trying to stand alone.
I would often stand up and stumble over when my stop arrived, craving the presence of the man who was supposed to be holding me up. He was at home, and I was 3,627 miles away in another country. The weight of those miles was like a constant reminder of my solitude, his absence amplified by every familiar gesture of affection I observed.
As someone so deeply in love, I began to feel a resentment I hadn’t expected, a sense of indignation that almost embarrassed me. I wanted to share every moment, every beautiful building and quiet cafe, every hidden alley and stunning view, with the man I loved. But instead, I found myself watching others live the life I had imagined, side by side, hand in hand. These couples, with their easy affection, their stolen kisses, and shared laughter, seemed to be flaunting their love, parading it in a way that felt unbearable. Their intertwined fingers, the way they posed for photos with someone there to steady the camera, each flash of a smile felt as though it was directed at me as a reminder of what I was missing
As someone who was so in love, I was disgusted by the love I saw in Paris. I was desirous to share every moment, every new place with the man I loved. These couples were throwing it in my face, doing it on purpose, mocking my loneliness in the supposed city of love. They mocked me with their hand-holding and stupid pictures that I was forced to take alone.
But as the days passed, my irritation with those couples softened into something else—a quiet longing that brought a new kind of awareness. I began to wonder about the story behind each pair. Maybe they had once been separated by miles and were now gloating at the chance to be together again. Maybe they understood the pain of distance in a way I hadn’t considered before, and now they were savoring every moment with a fierceness that looked like mocking to me. I closed my eyes and called him on the phone to share my every thought and experience and pretended like he was next to me instead of 3,627 miles away.
yours truly, anna
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