Hey New York City Subway,
How are you? I’m... okay. I’m sorry this letter is going to be a little awkward, but our relationship isn’t working out.
You’re probably wondering why I’m ending things.
Things were going so well between us. And they were going great for a little while. There’s no denying we had a good run.
And I know that when we first started dating, I loved you more than you loved me. I know that. I was so excited about you at first. I thought you were strong and sleek, beautiful and honest.
To me, you represented power and possibility. I couldn’t get enough of you back then. See, that’s the thing about relationships. There’s usually a power imbalance, and sometimes relationships don't end the way we expect them to.
When I first moved to this city, you did have the power. I thought you were amazing. I thought you were perfect for me. And you were. This doesn’t diminish what we used to have.
There were plenty of days you whisked me where I wanted to go, sent me flawlessly humming through your tunnels and stops.
You darted me to class and bars and work and readings. I spent plenty of evenings nestled against your seats, reading my books, listening to music, comfortably people watching.
I used to love getting high in my apartment and then having you roar me through the underground tunnel ways of my heart. I used to love blasting music in my ears and letting you pour the light of New York City, all over my head until I was drenched.
While riding you, I met nice people, beautiful people, sweet people, and, on the rare occasion someone was mean to me, that was even okay. Because I knew you loved me.
But those days are now over. I know you don’t love me anymore.
You’ve been too passive aggressive to me for too long, and I’m no longer putting up with it. I’m calling you out. Like what’s with the price hike? You want me to give more and more, while you’ve been giving me less and less.
Not only are you smelly, crowded, and late, nowadays you never show up at all. Even when you promised you would. Even when I really needed you.
Now, every time I get inside you, there are forty other people trying to do the same thing.
I can hardly find space to stand, let alone ever consider finding a seat. I’m lucky if I find space on a pole to hold onto, and if I do, I’m rubbing hands with someone I definitely don’t want to be rubbing hands with. I have to tilt my head to the ceiling so I can even breathe sometimes.