I know your name now, and I've been repeating it to myself like a mantra.

So far, it seems as though you haven't seen my posts, and nobody else has told you that I'm looking for you. So I hatched another plan.

This morning, I hiked out of the tunnel before dawn and walked down West Portal Avenue to keep myself warm and awake. I nursed a cup of coffee from Peet's and eventually picked up a bagel and cream cheese, but I was too nervous to eat it. I handed it to a lady pushing a shopping cart up the hill and went to the station to wait.

It took forever for your trolley to arrive, and when I boarded, you were leaning against the window with your eyes closed and your mouth half-open. There were dark circles under your eyes and I wondered jealously whether someone had kept you up the entire night before.

But then your cell phone rang and you jolted awake, pulling it from your pocket in a practiced motion.

"This is Hassan," you said.

My eyes widened. I tried not to stare.

Hassan. Your name.

I listened as you talked to the person on the other end. Your voice is soft, a little worn, at least at that hour of the morning. You don't have an accent, so I'm guessing you were born in America.

I was so busy repeating your name in my head that it was several minutes before I realized: you were talking about me.

"What did you say? Some girl who lives in the tunnels?"

My eyes widened. I stared straight ahead, pretending to read the poster describing what passengers should do if the trolley breaks down.

"That's impossible. If she was looking for me, I would see it. I read Missed Connections every day."

There was another pause, long enough that I could tell the caller was reading to you from my posts. I watched you from the corner of my eye. Your face was pressed against the window, one hand cupped around your eyes to cut the glare, as you searched the tunnel walls. For signs of my door, or my face, I guessed.

I looked around, but none of the other passengers were listening to you, let alone looking out the windows.

"I don't see anything but cinderblock and rusty pipes, man." You shook your head. "I'm telling you, there's nothing here. Someone's fucking with me, I guess."

Just as the trolley pulled into Forest Hill Station, you said, "She dreamed what?" And then your voice softened. "Really?"

A bolder woman would have walked up and introduced herself, but I'm not so bold. Instead, I pulled the hood of my jacket around my head so nobody could see how red I had turned, and stepped from the train as casually as I could manage. Without running. Without my legs giving out beneath me.

As I turned back, I could read your lips as you continued to talk to the caller.

"How do you think I could find her?"

All day, I've been dreaming up ways to meet. And I've been whispering your name to myself: Hassan. Hassan. Hassan.

Cody