The J train stalled on the Williamsburg Bridge at 7:12 this morning, right at the highest point over the East River, and for once I didn't sigh.
Usually I'm the girl fake-jogging up the stairs at Marcy Ave like the train owes me money. Ahmedabad taught me many things but standing still was not one of them. We are a people who arrive early and then complain about the wait.
But the J train paused, the conductor mumbled something no human has ever understood, and the whole car went quiet. Sunlight came through the scratched windows all buttery and forgiving.
A man across from me was eating a bacon egg and cheese with the reverence of communion. A girl in Doc Martens was asleep against the pole. Somebody's phone was playing Arijit Singh very softly, and I almost cried into my iced coffee like an idiot.
Here is the thing nobody tells you about the J train at 7AM. It is not glamorous. It smells like warm metal and someone's cologne applied with hope rather than restraint. But from that bridge you see the whole city stretch out, Manhattan glittering like it's trying too hard, Brooklyn behind you being cooler about everything.
We hung there for four minutes. I know because I timed it, because I am still my mother's daughter.
And I thought, when did I decide that every minute not spent moving was a minute wasted? When did being late become a moral failing instead of just, you know, a Tuesday?
The J train started again with a groan. The man finished his sandwich. The music stopped. Everyone remembered to be a New Yorker again, eyes forward, faces closed.
But I got to work eleven minutes late and nothing burned down. My boss didn't notice. The world kept spinning on its slightly delayed axis.
Maybe the summer of 2026 is the summer I let the J train be slow.
We're all just going somewhere. Might as well see the river on the way.
Love,