Riding Toward the Unknown

I never liked taking the train. Something about being packed in with strangers, surrounded by the hum of conversations, coughing, and clattering made me feel like I was in a sensory overload chamber. But on this particular Thursday, the train was my only option. My car had given up the ghost that morning, and the thought of taking an Uber or Lyft felt too indulgent on my meager budget. So, there I was, squeezed into a corner seat, trying my best to pretend I was alone.

As the train pulled out of the station, I pulled out my book — some self-help guide promising the secrets of “finding your purpose.” I was a sucker for those kinds of books, though I could never quite put their advice into practice. I had been floating for a while, going through the motions at a job I tolerated, spending my evenings scrolling through Netflix without really watching anything, and feeling more disconnected from myself with each passing day. I had hit one of those walls in life where you know something has to change, but you have no clue what or how.

The train was unusually packed that day. Every seat was filled, and the aisles were jammed with people holding on to the overhead bars for balance. That’s when I noticed him standing not too far from me — a tall man, probably in his mid-50s, with salt-and-pepper hair and a crumpled suit. He looked tired, not the kind of tired that comes from a long day at work, but a deeper exhaustion that settles in the bones. I wouldn’t have given him more than a passing glance if it weren’t for the fact that he was staring at me. Not in a creepy way, just... observing.

I tried to ignore him, but he continued to look in my direction. Finally, he spoke.

“That book isn’t going to help you,” he said.

I blinked, unsure if I had heard him correctly. I pulled out one of my earbuds. “Excuse me?”

“That book,” he repeated, nodding toward the self-help tome in my hands. “It’s just going to tell you things you already know but don’t want to admit. Save yourself the time.”

I couldn’t help but bristle. Who was this guy to tell me what would or wouldn’t help? “And what do you suggest?” I shot back, trying to sound more amused than irritated.

The man smiled, a weary but genuine expression that softened his otherwise stern face. “How about a conversation instead?” He gestured toward the empty spot on the floor next to him, an odd invitation given that there were no seats available.

I hesitated. Every part of my introverted soul wanted to decline and go back to my book. But something in his eyes — a mix of kindness and urgency — made me put my book back in my bag. I stood up, awkwardly maneuvering my way through the cramped aisle until I was standing beside him.

“Alright,” I said, trying to sound casual. “What’s your pitch?”

He chuckled softly, looking down for a moment before meeting my eyes again. “I used to be like you,” he said. “Searching for answers in books, podcasts, seminars — anything that promised a roadmap to a better life. But none of it stuck. Do you want to know why?”

“Why?”

“Because I didn’t know the right question to ask.”

That sounded cryptic, but I decided to bite. “And what’s the right question?”

Instead of answering, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out an old, beat-up notebook. Its pages were frayed, the cover scuffed with years of use. He opened it to a random page and handed it to me. The handwriting was messy, but I could just make out the words- What do you actually want?

I must’ve made a face because he smiled again. “It’s a deceptively simple question,” he said. “Most people think they know the answer, but they’ve never actually sat down to figure it out.”

“I mean, it’s pretty straightforward,” I said, feeling defensive. “I want to be happy, successful, you know, all the usual things.”

He shook his head. “No, those are things you think you’re supposed to want. But what do you really want? What gets you out of bed in the morning? What would make you feel truly alive?”

I opened my mouth to answer, but the words caught in my throat. It was like someone had turned a spotlight on the parts of myself I had been too afraid to examine. I realized I didn’t have an answer. I had been living on autopilot for so long that I’d forgotten to even ask myself that question.

He seemed to sense my struggle. “When I was your age,” he said, “I was a corporate lawyer. I had the house, the car, the six-figure salary. But I was miserable. I’d go to bed dreading the next day. I was living a life that looked good on paper but felt empty inside.”

“So, what did you do?” I asked, genuinely curious now.

“One day, I snapped. Walked out of my office in the middle of a Tuesday afternoon and never went back. I spent the next year wandering, trying to figure out what I actually wanted. It took me a long time, but eventually, I found it.”

“What was it?”

He smiled again, that same enigmatic smile. “I won’t tell you, because it’s not my answer that matters. It’s yours. And you’ll never find it in a book.”

Before I could ask him anything else, the train began to slow as it approached the next station. The man glanced up at the digital display, his expression shifting.

“This is my stop,” he said, slipping his notebook back into his coat pocket. “But here.” He pulled out a business card and handed it to me. “If you ever want to talk more, give me a call.”

I took the card, expecting it to be the usual corporate affair, but it was blank except for a phone number scrawled in blue ink. Before I could even thank him, he was gone, lost in the sea of people flooding off the train.

I tried to return to my life as usual after that encounter on the train. But his question — What do you actually want? — stuck with me, like a song I couldn’t get out of my head.

The next morning, I was back at my cubicle, staring at my monitor. Emails piled up, and meetings came and went, but I felt like I was sleepwalking through it all. I couldn't stop thinking about the stranger’s tired, searching eyes. His words echoed in my mind as I tried to lose myself in spreadsheets and project reports.

I took a break to get some coffee, hoping the caffeine would jolt me out of my headspace. The familiar buzz of the office was there — phones ringing, coworkers laughing, keyboards clattering. It used to be comforting, a kind of white noise that helped me push through the monotony. But now, it just grated on my nerves. I found myself looking out the window, eyes unfocused, wondering what it would feel like to walk away from all of it the way he had.

That night, I tried to distract myself with my usual routine- Netflix, takeout, scrolling through my phone. But the shows that once filled the silence now felt hollow. I couldn’t concentrate. I kept turning his question over in my mind — like he had handed me a puzzle with a piece missing.

I took out my journal, the one I hadn’t touched in months, and tried to write. But every line felt forced, like I was trying to convince myself I was okay. I wrote down the things I thought I wanted- a better job, more money, maybe a relationship. But none of it felt right. I scratched them out, frustrated.

That weekend, I went to a party with some friends, hoping a few drinks would drown out the restless feeling gnawing at me. But as I stood in the corner of a crowded apartment, half-listening to conversations about promotions and weekend getaways, I realized I was barely present. I couldn’t stop thinking about that old man — how he had looked at me like he could see straight through the walls I’d put up. I excused myself early and headed home, feeling more isolated than ever.

The turning point came the following Monday. I was sitting in yet another meeting that could have been an email, nodding along to discussions that didn’t matter to me. As my manager droned on about quarterly projections, I noticed my hands were trembling slightly. A surge of panic welled up in my chest, and I could barely breathe. The thought of spending another five years like this — another ten, another twenty — terrified me.

When the meeting ended, I went straight to the bathroom and locked myself in a stall. My heart was pounding, my breaths shallow. I had a sudden, overwhelming urge to call the number on that stranger’s card. I pulled it out of my bag and stared at it, running my thumb over the blue ink. But I couldn’t bring myself to dial. Not yet. Instead, I just sat there, the sounds of the office muffled on the other side of the door.

That night, after another restless day, I finally called. A woman answered, and I learned he was gone. The news hit me like a punch to the stomach. He had been a stranger, just a man on a train, yet the loss felt strangely personal, like the final thread holding me to my old life had snapped.

I sat in silence after hanging up, the weight of it all settling in. I thought about the man riding those trains, spending his last days talking to strangers, trying to plant seeds of change in their lives. I wondered if he had seen something in me — something desperate to break free.

Over the next few weeks, I found myself changing in ways I hadn’t planned. I started waking up earlier, not to rush into work, but to write. At first, it was just scribbles in my journal, messy and unfocused. But then, slowly, stories began to pour out — things I hadn’t realized I’d been holding in for years. I took long walks after work, letting my mind wander. The city felt different now, like it was full of possibilities I’d been too numb to notice.

Eventually, I quit my job, but not in a dramatic blaze of glory. It was a quiet, deliberate decision. I gave my notice, finished my projects, and left with nothing but a box of my things and a newfound clarity.

The first morning after leaving, I woke up with a sense of lightness I hadn’t felt in years. There was no plan, no roadmap. But there was a spark, a glimmer of something I hadn’t even known I was searching for. I spent my days writing, trying to capture the feeling of that train ride, of that moment when everything shifted.

Sometimes, when I get stuck or feel lost, I think back to that man. I’ll never know his name or what answers he found for himself, but I like to think he’s still riding those trains, in spirit if not in body, nudging lost souls to ask themselves the questions they’ve been avoiding.

In a way, he gave me a gift far greater than any book or seminar could- he reminded me that sometimes, the first step to changing your life is as simple as asking yourself what you truly want — and having the courage to admit that the answer might be something entirely different from what you’ve been chasing.