ILLUSTRATION BY DREW SHANNON
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There is a lost-and-found box, tucked away in an odd corner of the internet, where the lonely hearts and hopeless romantics of Toronto collect. Titled “Missed Connections,” it’s a forum where anyone can post, addressing the strangers they wished they’d met but only passed by. I never thought I’d be one of those people. And then I was.
On a frigid Saturday morning, I was on my way home from campus when I noticed a guy walking a few paces ahead of me. At each stoplight, I’d catch up and, for a moment, we’d be standing side by side. There was something about his face that I liked and I could sense him eyeing me as I eyed him. As I followed him down the stairs to the subway station, I felt a tiny thrill that he hadn’t kept walking past the entrance. Then, through the turnstile, he walked toward the north train and I had it again, that I’m-glad-you’re-going-my-way feeling. On the platform, he turned one way and I went the other. I figured I’d rather stick to my normal subway habits, so I walked down to the far end, where there are usually fewer people waiting.
When I looked down the platform, I could pick out his figure, tall and all in black, looking down toward me. I looked away quickly, blushing for absolutely no good reason. When I looked back, I saw that he was walking toward my end. I tried to look neutral as he passed behind me and then stopped, a few metres down the platform from where I stood. I looked over just as he looked at me.
As the train blew into the station, it sent my bangs into an unauthorized comb-over, I watched from the corner of my eye as he shifted in my direction. The train car was nearly empty and I took the first seat, feeling about as graceful as a newborn moose. Of all the available seats, he sank into the one adjacent to mine, hardly two feet away.
I was in agony for five stops. I could feel his eyes on me. I could feel my heart beating frantically, probably tapping out: “Why am I such a dork?” in Morse code. I thought of a million things I could turn and say to this attractive stranger, but I couldn’t do it. The train pulled up to my station and he got off behind me and stopped. Before he could turn to face me, some sort of nervous squirrel-like instinct kicked in and my legs were carrying me away to the side street exit I always used. With each step, I felt more regret that I hadn’t said anything to him, hadn’t even met his eye. I came home buzzing from the tension, describing the scene to my roommate so we could commiserate on missed opportunities. We got to talking about the way city life could often bring fleeting interactions with strangers that felt as though they could be the start of something more permanent.
Eventually, I found myself searching online for “missed connections, Toronto.” The phrase felt like an antique, leftover from a time of classified ads in newspapers. But to my surprise, there was such a website where people posted both searches for specific strangers and vague appeals for anyone to answer.
“I was wearing a dark blue coat and my hair was a mess. We both got on the subway at College station, around 11:30 on Saturday. You were tall and blondish and wearing a lot of black. You sat near me and I really should have chatted you up. I know you probably won’t see this, but if you do, let’s try that again.” I titled the post with the subway line and pressed submit, feeling like an absolute fool. I used my junk e-mail address, mostly bracing myself for an onslaught of creepy messages, with a small part of me wondering if I might actually get a reply from the subway guy.
What I got was fascinating, weird and shockingly heartfelt. The responses ranged from the internet’s standard brand of explicit, disturbing offers from men much older than me, to the genuinely curious, who reached out to see if my message had tracked down “the guy.” For one very exciting moment, a new e-mail appeared with a subject line reading “Can’t believe one of these could actually be about me!” Upon opening it, however, the responder admitted that he didn’t remember all the girls he’d seen, but wondered if it could be him. He had attached a photo that proved that he definitely wasn’t the guy in question. A few more messages showed up, some just to say that they wished someone would write a post like mine about them, others to commend me for trying. One man simply concluded that he ought to take the subway more often.
What struck me, though, was that among all the different reasons people did get in touch – even the in creepier messages – every single person was honest. No one tried to pretend to be the person I was trying to reach. I realized that, despite my worst expectations of people online, the ones who had reached out to me were all, in a way, true romantics and they had a certain reverence for my attempt to nudge fate. This lost and found of lonely souls was no doubt a very odd place, but in missing my chance with the tall dark and handsome, I’d met several sincere, hopeful hearts.
Two days after my stab in the dark, a new reply came in. His subject heading was a single word: “intrigued.” Once again, I wondered if this could be him. Instead, the man introduced himself, explaining that although he wasn’t the guy, something in the wording of my post had prompted him to contact me. He said I had sounded confident and honest. I thought this was funny, as the whole reason I’d even had to write it was because I was too nervous to say what was on my mind that morning. We exchanged a few more messages, chatting about our lives and love and how sometimes the city’s sea of people almost made it harder to focus on a single person. As we ended our correspondence, we wished each other luck.
The e-mails have stopped coming now and the short answer is, no, I never heard back from the guy. But I did get to speak with some people firsthand that I didn’t really think existed, who proved that romantics live on in the digital age, in a small, hopeful segment of the internet. I also learned that clearly I’m not as cynical about love as I thought. And, who knows, I take the subway every morning – stuffed up against businessmen and grandmothers like pickled beets in a jar – so maybe I’ll see the guy again. If I do, I’m not sure I’ll tell him about the post, but next time, I will definitely say hello.
Jenny Crick now lives in Ottawa.