You don’t choose them. They choose you, sliding past your window like ghosts made of flesh and wool, and for three seconds, they are the most important person in the world.

There is a specific kind of intimacy that exists only in transit. It’s not the deep, tangled knot of marriage or friendship. It’s something lighter, sharper, and infinitely more fragile. I’ve been thinking about this lately because I spent the last hour on the commuter line to the city, watching the rain smear the glass into a watercolor wash of grays and greens. And there, across the aisle, was a man. He wasn’t looking at me. He was looking at his own reflection, but also through it, as if he were trying to solve an equation written in fog. He had a scar above his left eyebrow. His hands were wrapped around a paper cup that smelled, I’m sure, of cheap coffee and regret. For forty-five seconds, we shared a universe. Then the train lurched, he checked his watch, and he vanished into the tunnel.

I want to paint him. Not really. I can’t. But my hand twitches with the urge to capture the geometry of his sadness. This is what I mean when I talk about portraits of faces seen only in passing. These are the sketches we make in our minds, the quick studies of humanity that never leave our heads because no one would understand why we’re obsessed with the stranger who dropped their keys in the subway car. We collect these moments like smooth stones in our pockets. They are heavy with meaning we’ll never decipher. Let’s look closer at why we feel the need to hold onto people who never knew we existed.

When you are sitting on a train, you are permitted to look. The social contract allows it, provided it’s brief, provided it’s accidental-looking, even if it’s anything but. You study the architecture of a stranger’s face while the world blurs outside. You notice the way light catches the dust motes dancing around a woman reading a book with cracked spines. You see the tension in a teenager’s jaw as he pretends to listen to music that isn’t playing. You are a thief of moments, stealing glimpses of lives that are as complicated and messy as your own.

What’s the texture of that gaze? It’s not judgment. It’s curiosity. It’s a quiet recognition that behind every pair of eyes is a history of heartbreaks, small victories, burnt toast, and missed buses. When you try to paint these faces, whether on paper or in your mind, you aren’t capturing a likeness. You’re capturing a feeling. You’re trying to freeze the moment before the mask slips back into place. In the studio, I often struggle with getting the skin right, the pores, the exact shade of freckles. But on the train, the detail doesn’t matter. The blur is the point. The imperfection is where the truth hides. I used to think I needed perfect reference photos. Now I know that the smudge is more honest than the sharp line.

I keep a notebook on my desk filled with descriptions of people I’ve never met. Page four has a woman with silver hair who laughed too loudly at a joke no one else heard. Page twelve has a boy asleep with his head against the cold window, dreaming of something I’ll never know. I call these unfinished portraits. They are incomplete by design. If I were to sit down and actually paint them, I’d have to invent the rest of their lives. I’d have to guess what they’re wearing underneath the coat. I’d have to imagine the sound of their voice. And that’s terrifying. Because once you give them a backstory, they stop being mysterious strangers and start being characters. And characters are easy. People are hard.

It’s okay to be unfinished. That’s the lesson these fleeting encounters teach me. We spend so much time trying to complete ourselves, to finish our projects, to resolve our narratives. But some things are meant to remain open-ended. Some connections are meant to dissolve. The beauty of the train portrait is its ephemerality. It exists only for the duration of the ride. When the doors open, the spell breaks. The man with the scar goes back to his life. The woman with the cracked book disappears into the crowd. And I am left with just the memory of their presence. A ghost limb of emotion. It hurts a little, doesn’t it? That ache is proof that you were paying attention.

Sometimes, when I look at those passing faces, I don’t see them. I see myself. The reflection in the window is always superimposed over the world outside. My own ghost floats over the passing fields, over the concrete walls, over the tired eyes of my fellow travelers. It’s a double exposure. Two images layered on top of each other until they become indistinguishable. I wonder if the man with the scar saw me too. Did he see a woman staring back, her nose pressed against the cold glass, her breath fogging the barrier between us? Or did he see nothing at all?

This mirror effect is dangerous territory for a creative. It’s easy to project your own loneliness onto a stranger’s indifference. It’s easy to turn someone else’s pain into your own art without ever asking permission. But there’s a dignity in that projection. It means you are willing to engage with the world, even if it’s from a safe distance. Even if it’s just with your eyes. We are all mirrors for each other, reflecting light and shadow in equal measure. The train is a hall of mirrors, and we are all just trying to find our own face in the chaos. What do you see when you look out the window? Do you see the world, or do you see yourself hiding in it?

I tried to paint one of these faces last week. Just one. The woman with the silver hair. I sat in my studio with the reference photo I’d taken from my phone—blurry, grainy, almost abstract. But it was enough. I didn’t try to render her features realistically. I used broad strokes of gray and white, mixing the paint with water until it ran off the canvas like tears. I painted the laugh. I painted the volume. I painted the joy that seemed so out of place in the drab interior of the train car. When I stepped back, the painting looked like a storm cloud. It didn’t look like her. But it felt like her.

That’s the secret of the passing portrait. You aren’t painting the person. You’re painting the impact they had on you. You’re painting the ripple in the water. It’s a selfish act, in a way. You take their image and make it yours. You carry it home. You put it on your wall. And then, eventually, you forget who they were, but you remember how they made you feel. That feeling is the artifact. The face is just the vessel. We are vessels for each other’s emotions, carrying joy and sorrow across the tracks of our daily routines. It’s a sacred exchange, even if neither of us knows it happened.

There is a profound loneliness in modern life, but there is also a profound connection in being seen, even briefly. When someone looks at you on the train, really looks at you, it validates your existence. It says, ‘I see you. You are here. You are real.’ In a world that demands we perform, that asks us to curate our lives for screens and likes, the anonymous glance is a relief. It requires nothing of you. You don’t have to smile. You don’t have to wave. You just have to be. You can be tired. You can be sad. You can be bored. And it’s okay.

I think about the artists who painted the working class in the nineteenth century. They captured the dirt and the sweat and the exhaustion. They dignified the mundane. I want to do the same with the faces on the train. I want to honor their invisibility. I want to say, ‘You matter, even if you are just a blur in the background.’ It’s a small rebellion against the erasure of ordinary life. We are all main characters in our own stories, but we are all extras in everyone else’s. And there is beauty in that duality. There is peace in letting go of the need to be remembered. To simply be witnessed, for a moment, is enough.

So, what do we do with these ghosts? How do we carry them without letting them weigh us down? I think we keep them close. We let them inform our work. We let them soften our hearts. We acknowledge that every face we pass is a universe unto itself, vast and uncharted. We treat them with the respect due to a sacred text. We don’t stare. We don’t intrude. We just witness. And in witnessing, we connect.

I hope you’ll start noticing the faces on your next commute. Look for the details. The chipped nail polish. The frayed cuff. The distant look in the eyes. Ask yourself what story is hidden in that glance. Don’t try to solve it. Just hold it. Let it sit with you. Let it change you, even a little. Because you are changing too. You are becoming more aware, more present, more alive. And that is the greatest gift of all. To be awake in a sleeping world. To see the magic in the mundane. To find the art in the accident. It’s okay to be unfinished. It’s okay to be a work in progress. The train keeps moving, and so do we.

Thank you for riding along with me today. Stay curious. Stay soft. I’ll see you on the next track.