I was 10 years old, and my grandparents and I were coming back from Sochi by train, after spending three weeks near the sea. There, we swam and sunbathed, and I tried to ride a motorcycle boat for the first time. That was my first long trip. To travel by train from Sochi to Omsk takes three days.

After we entered the train and found our seats, I immediately climbed to the top bed in the compartment. I loved the process of getting up to “the second floor.” I thought that the second floor wasn’t easy for others to get to. Besides, I could observe people from there, like I was on a watchtower. Some people were unwrapping food—eggs, tomatoes, roasted chicken thighs, apples. Some hopped out of their compartments to get hot water from the boiler to make tea or coffee. Some were playing cards. Others were reading or sleeping.

All these little actions seemed like big moments in the sameness of the journey. When nothing new was happening inside the train compartment or the corridor, I looked out the window at the passing trees, houses, and rivers. When the train stopped for a long break, my grandparents and I went outside to enjoy the firm ground and to browse through newspapers, journals, sweets, drinks, and all sorts of other things people sold at the station. We bought a melon and a home-baked potato pie and returned to the train after hearing a whistle.

When we came back to our compartment, new faces had replaced those of the passengers who had arrived at their destination. I saw two new suitcases on the beds near me. Soon, two boys arrived at their places. These boys were traveling home from a competition with their team and their trainer. They looked like they were 11 to 12 years of age. I was not particularly interested in boys at that age, but one boy, whose name was Vlad, was attractive. He had long brown hair—longer than usual for a boy—and green eyes. That’s all that I remember about him now.

The boys were on the train for two days. Vlad was always somewhere nearby and tried to talk with me. In the beginning, I was angry with him, but then I started to like his attention. We played cards and chess together. When we were passing through tunnels and it was dark, Vlad would always make a ghostly sound. I pretended I was scared, and he would laugh. This was a fun time for me.

One day, Vlad’s friend came to me when I was eating a melon. Looking at his serious face, I knew he wanted to talk to me about something important. He started to tell me how Vlad really liked me. I don’t know why, but I answered that I didn’t like him back, even though that wasn’t true. Maybe I thought it was a joke. Vlad never spoke to me again. I regretted my answer but did not show it to anyone. We were just children from different cities who met on that train, but I felt sad. Soon Vlad and his team left the train, and I continued on my way. We spent only a couple of days on the train, but from the whole trip to Sochi, this is my most vivid memory. Not the motorcycle boat, not the sea or the sun, not the walks around the city, or the souvenirs we bought. Since then I have realized two things. One is that we should not hide the truth for the sake of our protection. The second is that life’s paths can instantly connect people or separate them forever.
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Tatiana Bleyman was born in Tolyatti, Russia, but lived in Omsk. She came to the U.S. in 2018. She studies English at the College of Staten Island with teacher Polina Belimova. Blerina Likollari is the program director.