There's a new girl on my train today. You get used to the regulars on your commute, the people who stand out. The man with a slight limp. The woman who talks to her friend on the phone somewhat too loud. The old hippy guy who makes the car smell like a skunk. The perfectly average people in between. So a new, interesting face is cause for a furtive glance, if nothing else.

What caught my eye however, is her mask. A mask in itself isn't anything to write home about these days, but what catches my eye isn't the pandemic caution. It's a second mask, larger than the first, a facade that hides her true self. It makes her look like a boy, a man really. I don't know how I can see through, but I can. Under the mask, her face is bored, annoyed even. She browses through her phone listlessly, thumb moving from bottom to top, scrolling the endless seas of social media.

She intrigues me. I keep a lazy eye on her, noting when she gets off. The Rose Quarter stop. Could be going anywhere from there. Anywhere but where I'm going. I try to banish thoughts of her from my mind as I enter work, but I can't. The image of the translucent mask over her face haunts me.

I see her on the train coming home. We have similar schedules. I get a better look at her this time. She's still wearing the mask of a disinterested man, but underneath, I see a worn out young woman. There's a sadness that contrasts her youth, bags under her eyes that tell me she hasn't been sleeping well. My heart throbs sympathetically. I can't imagine what she's going through that she feels the need to put on that mask.

Her stop is one before mine. When she gets off, I'm careful to look away. I don't want her to think some crackpot on the train has been eyeballing her. No one wants that.

Still, I can't help but peek out the window, and what I see gives me the shivers. Her mask is changed. She didn't take it off, but instead it's morphed into something else. Now it shows the visage of a youthful man, conservative, polite. The perfect picture of who to take home to your WASPy parents, or perhaps who your WASP parents want you to be.

Her tired eyes persist, and I can't shake them from my mind.

The next day, she's wearing the same mask as on the train. She looks a little better, but the day is young, and there's plenty of time to get worn down. I watch with feigned disinterest, categorizing the shape of her face. Her hair is short, feathered on top, shaved at the sides. She has a strong jaw, with high cheekbones, and strong eyebrows. Her emerald green eyes flit about, watching cars go by. She sets a striking image, and I wonder at her need to hide.

I do my best not to crane my neck as she gets off the train. I've carefully positioned myself to be able to see her as she walks away, and wait with bated breath. I miss the moment it happens, but when she emerges from the crowd, the mask is a new, third one. It's the image of a consummate professional, someone not to be trifled with. It feels incongruous with the skinny jeans and polo she's wearing, but no one seems to notice.

So our dance continues, day after day. I see her tired eyes, the hurt watering in them like raindrops on a windshield, clinging on for dear life, wishing to never slide down. I see her posture, a slumping sadness that belies her weary nature. The same three masks. Man, Businessman, Altar Boy day in, day out. It's fascinating, heartbreaking.

I get to see a new mask one day. She comes into my work. It shouldn't be that surprising, it's a public business, but it still shocks me. She's with a few others, friends I presume. The mask she wears is one of a happy man, out for fun with his friends, but I can see through it. She looks miserable. It's all I can do to tear my eyes away. One of them calls out her name, a man's name. It feels wrong, and she wears it like a poorly fitted suit.

I see her, here and there, Portland's not such a big town. She seems to have a mask for each occasion. Riding a bike, she wears the mask of an elite athlete, determination painted on a face that's anything but. Out for a lonely walk, the face of an interested naturalist, but with a vacant stare beneath that gives me chills.

A month passes, perhaps two. Eventually, the cloth mask goes away, but the others remain. Our routine never changes a constant in an ever-shifting world. Until today. Today she doesn't get up at her usual stop. I desperately want to know what's changed, but I can't say anything. When my stop comes, I rise and exit, heading towards my apartment building.

A hand touches my arm while I'm walking through the park, and I spin, surprised. It's her. She's wearing a new mask this time, a defiant man, anger painted across his face. But her eyes tell a different story. Fear tints the edges, but it's tempered by a small curiosity that lights a glimmer in her eyes. It's the most emotion I've ever seen from her.

“Can we talk?”

I nod, and point to a bench nearby. She sits, but I continue to stand, nervous. She shuffles her feet a little before speaking.

“Why do you keep watching me on the train?”

I don't know how to answer that question, not without sounding like a stalker. I answer her question with my own.

“Why do you wear the masks?”

Her intake of breath is sharp, pained even.

“How can you tell?,” she demands.

“I don't know,” I admit. “From the very first time I saw you, I could see through them. I watched because I wanted to know about the girl behind them.”

Her eyes bug out, and she grips the armrest of the bench, knuckles white.

“What? I... How?”

I can't do anything but shrug. I don't know how, but I can tell.

We stay in silence, rooted as the tree trunks, each lost in our own thoughts.

“I think,” she starts, but stops again. Her gaze falls to the ground. “I think I wear them to hide, from everyone.”

I offer her what I hope is a warm smile.

“Why not try not wearing them for once?”

She looks away, towards an inquisitive squirrel, hopping along the ground. It eyes us briefly, chittering angrily at the intrusion into its territory.

“I can't. I've been wearing them for so long, I don't know who I am anymore.”

I reach out a hand to her. She looks up at the offer, and our eyes meet.

“I want to help you find out.”