‘I Was So Absorbed in My Notes That I Had Forgotten to Have Lunch’

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No Food Allowed

Dear Diary:

It was 3 p.m. on a snowy Saturday in December, and I was in Butler Library at Columbia University studying for my final exams. I realized that I was so absorbed in my notes that I had forgotten to have lunch.

Despite being in a place where I knew eating was prohibited, I pulled a protein bar out my backpack. The crinkle of the wrapper prompted the student sitting across from me to stop typing and tilt his head to study me.

“No Food Allowed,” a sign on the table said.

He looked at me, then at the sign and back at me. Then he smiled, pulled an apple out of his bag and took a big bite.

— Katherine Wang

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Keep On Moving

Dear Diary:

I was doing my morning tai chi warm-ups in outside my home in Carroll Gardens when I noticed a flatbed truck loaded with building supplies parked nearby.

To my surprise, there was a man on the back of the truck vigorously doing push-ups and other calisthenics.

We caught each other’s eye, and when he finished his workout, he jumped down from the truck and approached me.

“Good for you,” he said. “You have to keep on moving all the time.”

“Good for you,” I said. “Now that I’m getting older, I try to do that.”

With that, he jumped up onto the back of the truck, climbed on the forklift that was mounted there and got to work.

— David Werber

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Always Late

Dear Diary:

When I was in high school, I was perpetually late. For whatever reason, I would always start my commute from Jackson Heights a few minutes after I should have.

When I got to the subway station, the same person would usually be waiting there with me. It was clear that he was running late too.

I was a skinny teenage girl who leaned hard into the grunge aesthetic. He was a muscular man about twice my age wearing crisp streetwear.

Carrying our bulging backpacks, we would stand side by side in the same spot at the edge of the platform every day, peering into the tunnel as if willing the train to arrive.

When we got to Chambers Street, we would be the first ones off the train and would skip every other step up. We would speed-walk down the block, checking the time impatiently when stopped by a red light and then jaywalking when the coast was clear.

We would part ways at Borough of Manhattan Community College, where he turned off while I hustled on to my high school nearby. We shared this routine for years, not exchanging a word or a nod even as we experienced the same frenzied commute.

Nearly 20 years later, I’m commuting to Chambers Street again. Many things have changed. I’ve traded my ripped jeans for slacks and my Converse for heels. I’m married to a boy I liked from that same high school.

But on days I am waiting for the subway and peering into the tunnel as if willing the train to arrive, I think of my commuting buddy from all those years ago and wonder if he left on time that morning.

— Tasfia Nayem-Huzij

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Walk and Talk

Dear Diary:

I was walking uptown in the rain from the East Village when a woman just in front of me slipped on a subway grate.

I managed to catch her just before she hit the ground. When she regained her balance, she thanked me, and we began to chat as we continued walking.

She told me about her work, her neighborhood and a few of the restaurants and bars where she hung out with friends.

I got the impression that she was in her late 20s or early 30s and that she was not able to tell that, under my umbrella and floppy hat, I was twice her age.

“Where do you live?” she asked.

“Connecticut,” I said. “I took the train from New Haven to help a friend get ready to move.”

“Oh,” she said.

I explained that I was headed to Amsterdam Avenue to meet two of my children for dinner.

“That sounds like fun,” she said.

“They’re lots of fun,” I said. “Well, here’s where I turn off. Thanks so much for keeping me company.”

“You’re welcome,” she said. “Thanks so much for keeping me upright.”

— Timothy Breslin

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Family Resemblance

Dear Diary:

My 5-year-old son and I were in New York City from Iowa to visit family. We were on the subway, which we both enjoyed.

An older woman who had been sitting next to us silently looked at my son — a cute boy, if I do say so — looked at me, looked back at him and then spoke with great certainty.

“He looks like his father, right?” she said.

— Diane Kutzko

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Illustrations by Agnes Lee