I feel bored on the train from Poland to Vienna. We are just in the north of Czechia, so there are three more hours to go and I am so carefree that I start jumping between wagons. Slightly tired, I collapse into the first free seat in first class and turn toward the pristine window. Picturesque landscape, gentle sun … this is the kind of scene that makes German speakers sigh with Sehnsucht — a longing for something out of reach. Nothing in my surroundings or behaviour hints at the vulnerability of the conversation that will unfold in mere five minutes.

I return to my compartment, open the door and find a gallant young woman sitting next to my seat. Naturally shy, I feel her persona as a gift bestowed on me — unexpected, almost too serious for the moment. Her long flaxen hair and bright, almost transparent, green eyes give an air of innocence, while her dark blue sweater and an analytical gaze hint at experience beyond lived years. Ms N’s freckles on an otherwise perfect face and her legs, beautiful and strong, give rise to my passionate fantasies. I imagine our souls fusing in ecstasy — an escape from the painful distance in reality. Yet I still cannot take my eyes away from her perhaps too perfectly formed lips, finding myself wondering about the contrast in colour between my milk of love and her face. Easier to write such fantasies than to initiate the actual contact!

I do not want to appear as some “alpha male” to my readers. Instead, I prefer to challenge the definition of masculinity by embracing who I am: sensitive, intellectual and unafraid to show vulnerability. Social interactions often overwhelm me and one-to-one conversations are what I crave the most. These are the intimate moments when I offer another person a chance to get to know me deeply — and perhaps have this depth reciprocated in return. This is a type of discussion I long for with Ms N.

What I hate most about meeting new people is the performative nature of those initial talks. This noisy small talk — “Oh, and what do you think about the weather?”, “Wow, you are a software engineer!”, “It must be interesting to attend art galleries…” — feels like a code script designed for computers. In my pursuit of something deeper, I approach Ms N with a more sensitive note:

A: Hi! I don’t know if you’re open to it, but I’m feeling bored and would love to have a conversation with you.

She responds most amicably, her charming smile rewarding me for my courage. Ms N’s delicate fingers grab her hair into a ponytail and we start our conversation. With memories of physical abuse from my childhood, my psyche responds with anxiety when meeting a new person, yet every sentence exchanged with Ms N pushes my anxiety away. I presume she gets used to me and I, in turn, get used to her. Is this feeling a genuine sense of connection or an anxious mirror reflecting my own personality back at me?

My intuition was right: there is something deeply artistic in Ms N. She is a foreigner living in Austria, studying history of art at one of the universities here. Outwardly calm, I cannot silence my Id desires of fucking this young woman near her easel. Ms N explains her interest in history of art as a way to build the causal link between geopolitical events and artistic movements. She is highly analytical, yet there is something guarded in her explanations — freely intellectualising abstract ideas, but cagey about sharing her personal side.

The French have a saying: “l’amor est l’enfant de la liberte” (love is the child of freedom). Guided by this wisdom, I am sensitive to Ms N, giving her space to open up at her own pace. I begin to share my own struggles with intimacy and vulnerability, shaped by my trust issues. I tell her about my blog and we even discuss my essays. It is only then when I notice how our poses mirror each other — both our faces slightly flushed, both of us sitting anxiously, as if facing a mirror. We never say it aloud, but it feels as though we see each other’s wounds, too similar to ignore. Her phrase, repeated twice throughout our conversation, lingers in my mind: “There are a lot of bad people in the world … but not all the people are bad”. It feels like a quiet plea, a clear instruction for me to be sensitive to her boundaries, her tender nature.

Ms N’s attitude toward her own sensitivity reveals itself when we begin discussing the compatibility of people in relationships. She says that someone tough — pointing a palm toward herself — needs someone sensitive — gesturing at me. These qualities, seemingly mutually exclusive, create a dynamic that feels both complementary and fragile. Her confession of having nightmares where she runs away from persecutors adds another layer to my understanding of her inner world, offering a poignant glimpse into the fears that shape her.

Her outward toughness yet inner vulnerability, artisticness yet intellectualisation — I find myself strangely drawn to Ms N, eager to explore her inner world. I am struck by the brilliance of her mind as she shares a moment of reflection:

Ms N: I sometimes stop in the subway to watch the people around me. I never know who they are or what each of them worries about. Someone is heading to work, another to a vacation; one is on their way to a wedding, another to a funeral. We are so different in this world.

Time flies by and I notice that we have only forty minutes until our arrival in Vienna. I turn my head toward the train window, gazing into the darkness outside, and realise how happy I am to sit with this young woman and talk … or remain silent and still feel connected with her. Driven by the depth of my emotions, I turn to Ms N and say: “I am lucky to have met you”. She smiles and tells me our conversation feels just as meaningful to her.

I find myself attracted to Ms N’s openness when she smiles or laughs. My goal is to make her laugh and she finds some of my jokes hilarious, especially the ones teasing her as a “schnitzel girl”. In turn, she asks me about my time in Krakow. She supports me as I relive the sadness and insecurity that have lingered since leaving Ukraine. Her presence offers me reassurance I am not alone.

Only ten minutes until our arrival and I realise a simple yet powerful truth — I need her. We sit on one side of the coach, an empty seat between us, yet our heads lean toward each other, drawn by an invisible thread of connection. The “anxious mirror” that once reflected our fears has softened into what feels like genuine intimacy — or so I thought. Summoning my courage, I ask if we can stay in touch:

A: I remember your words about some people being bad and how it takes time to build trust. At the same time, I really loved our conversation and would like to stay in touch.

In the end, she gives me her private Instagram account — an illusion of connection between people in the digital world.

As we leave the train, I offer to help Ms N with her luggage. Her response is abrupt, almost aggressive: “No!”. It feels like a defence against dependency — a hint of the helplessness she felt depending on her parents as a child. Her departure is equally abrupt — jumping onto the platform and running to the parallel one to catch another train. My “Have a nice journey!” goes unanswered — the trains of our lives are destined to go in parallel.