◉ 008 | The Girl in Solid Fuchsia

My train arrives.

I board the Upfield line,

picking the seat in the sun.

Headphones in. Music on.

Eno’s Ambient 2: The Plateaux of Mirror.

Noise cancellation active.

The next stop — Brunswick.

Four passengers get on.

A little girl — mixed race, Asian and white.

A middle-aged white man.

An older couple. Both white.

They stand diagonally from me.

At first, I don’t know who is who.

A blank canvas.

But I start watching.

How they stand.

How they lean.

How their eyes move when one of them speaks.

And the story begins to write itself.

The older man and woman aren’t from here.

You can tell from their skin, their posture,

the way they grip the pole like they’re holding on for dear life.

Weathered. Sun-marked. The kind of hands shaped by land.

Their clothes aren’t dirty. Just unfamiliar.

Not Brunswick. Not the city.

They’re from the country. You can see it.

The younger man fits. Urban shoes. Balanced stance. Subtle head tilt.

It’s funny how much shoes can say.

You don’t need dialogue to read a scene like this.

Sometimes all it takes is looking — noticing the energy between people.

I can’t hear a thing.

But I can see — they’re not speaking loudly.

They’re a family.

A husband and wife. Their son. His daughter.

The girl is five or six.

Solid fuchsia outfit.

Everything revolves around her.

She touches each of them like she’s touching different kinds of love.

She leans against the grandpa’s legs — tiny against his frame.

The grandma adjusts her collar.

The father stands slightly apart. Alert. Protective.

He’s the captain of this city visit.

And the girl glows under all that attention.

She’s not spoiled — she’s seen.

She’s the centre of gravity.

Whatever the older couple couldn’t give their son,

they’re giving to her now.

We ride like that for ten minutes.

Me behind sunglasses.

No words. Just movement, like the music in my ears.

I construct the entire reality in my head.

And then the girl’s Asian mum comes to mind.

Maybe she stayed home.

Maybe she’s cooking, waiting for them to come back.

Maybe she needed a break.

Or maybe she’s gone.

I’ll never know.

What’s the probability this whole thing is true?

I’d say—95%.

That’s how far your eyes can get you.