City of Shared Stories
Has someone written about the area where you live?
Use our search to find creative writing about places you know.
To share your story follow the link below and type your story or poem about Kuala Lumpur.
As much as I wanted to speak to her, I knew I couldn't. It was a potent mix of shyness, my fear of her not being able to hear me over the torrential downpour playing pitter-patter against the walls and roof of the train, and most of all, the inherent social taboo of striking random conversation while in the LRT.
The ding of the door opening at its latest stop took me away from the awkward stare I had been flashing her way; I looked up to check the station. We were now at the Pasar Seni station. She shifted in her seat, giving me the briefest flinch. Was she leaving now? (Ten stops more before mine, I noted to myself.)
An influx of people came in: this station was one of the busiest in the city, and in a matter of seconds the train packed itself with new passengers. The gap between me and her was marginal at best, no more than six feet separated us. But now it widened with every new obstacle of a new person in between. Every cough, every sound, every person.
The doors closed, and the train began moving once more. It picked up speed. I leaned against my seat, looking around. An elderly woman, hunched over her back and bearing wrinkles dating every day in her life, stood nearby, hanging on to the cool metal pole. The urge to stand, to surrender my seat to her, came over me. I did.
And the sad thing was I really wasn't being generous, nor selfless, nor altruistic. I stood to give away my seat so I could stand closer to her. Crossing past, and taking her place, I catch a glimpse of her gaze to me. And then, in that moment: a minuscule nod, a flicker of approval!
The ding of the door opening at its latest stop took me away from the awkward stare I had been flashing her way; I looked up to check the station. We were now at the Pasar Seni station. She shifted in her seat, giving me the briefest flinch. Was she leaving now? (Ten stops more before mine, I noted to myself.)
An influx of people came in: this station was one of the busiest in the city, and in a matter of seconds the train packed itself with new passengers. The gap between me and her was marginal at best, no more than six feet separated us. But now it widened with every new obstacle of a new person in between. Every cough, every sound, every person.
The doors closed, and the train began moving once more. It picked up speed. I leaned against my seat, looking around. An elderly woman, hunched over her back and bearing wrinkles dating every day in her life, stood nearby, hanging on to the cool metal pole. The urge to stand, to surrender my seat to her, came over me. I did.
And the sad thing was I really wasn't being generous, nor selfless, nor altruistic. I stood to give away my seat so I could stand closer to her. Crossing past, and taking her place, I catch a glimpse of her gaze to me. And then, in that moment: a minuscule nod, a flicker of approval!
27 people like this story.
