Drip. Drip. I forgot my umbrella. I say that as if I have ever remembered to bring it. But as was the case every rainy day this season, I have two options: save my sketchbook or save myself. I strip off my sweatshirt and wrap the treasured pages tightly in it. I make haste towards the train station as the rain comes down harder. My long curls betray me by soaking up every ounce of water. Drip. Drip.

Passersby close their umbrellas like clockwork as they reach the platform. A swift motion each time. The umbrellas come in cool purples, blues, and black to mimic the sky's demeanor. An older woman grazes past me to board the train. I saunter in after her and take my seat.

My sweatshirt gets unraveled and thrown back on over my t-shirt. The sudden warmth I feel surprises me. I open my sketchbook to a blank page and grab a pen from the pocket of my corduroys. I scan the figures of the other riders. Their hair, jackets, handbags, shoes. I make eye contact with wandering eyes that turn away promptly once the train starts to move.

A mustard-colored beanie sticks out to me. It is attached to a man glued to his phone. He’s dressed in layers, mostly grey. His large backpack sits on the floor next to him. He'll do for now.

I begin sketching his outline, capturing the folds of his clothing. I trace the shape of his bag. I scribble shadows and detail shoelaces. I am staring at his sneakers so intently I don't notice he's looked up from his phone. Until I do.

We lock eyes. His raised questioning eyebrow and half-smile give me no reason to believe he's uncomfortable, but I certainly am. I look down at my lap, shut my sketchbook closed, and position my body away from his. I fidget with my pen and tap my feet. That's enough for today.

At the next stop, the man gets up to leave. But he doesn't leave. He sits down directly to my right.

“May I see?”

His voice is soft and non-threatening. Without answering verbally, I turn to the page in question and hand him the sketchbook. He's beaming now. “You're very talented. May I flip through the rest?”

I nod. His excitement grows with every page turn. My embarrassment evolves into a quiet confidence. The train comes to an abrupt halt. We are sitting close enough that a droplet of water falls from my hair and lands on a page. The ink spreads just slightly, startling him. “Here.” He hands me an umbrella that had been tucked behind his backpack. It matches his beanie. He exits.

Over the next several months, I carry my yellow umbrella daily in the hopes of spotting its original owner. But I never see him again. I gift the umbrella to someone in need and my curls go back to being exposed to the elements. Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip.