On the bright Tuesday morning, of March 18th, 2025, I embarked on a routine journey. I departed my home just shy of 10 am, with the intention of reaching Grace & Ken’s apartment for an hour-long exercise session with Ken, scheduled from 11 am to noon. My path lay through Laurier Metro, a long stretch of 12 stations destined for Vendôme Metro, at whose doorstep I planned to catch a bus to my friends’ residence on Benny Street.

The voyage commenced ordinarily enough, until the train passed through the confines of Place St-Henri Metro, inching towards Vendôme Metro station. Suddenly, without forewarning, the train ground to a halt, trapped in the stifling embrace of the tunnel’s oppressive, dark grey walls that seemed to whisper frightful secrets into the crevices of my soul. The silence descended upon us like the weight of every unshed tear, a smothering void that lasted for three agonizing minutes.

Breaking the oppressive quietude, a female voice announced with chilling calmness that a Medical Group was attending to a situation at Vendôme Metro. This rendered the Orange Line, or line number two, temporarily inoperative until  11:05 am. In that distressing moment, a sense of dread washed over me, as I realized the grim truth; somewhere amid the chaos, someone had chosen to cast themselves into the unforgiving path of the train to commit suicide. What had begun as an unremarkable journey had morphed into a haunting misadventure, leaving me entangled in my thoughts, a silent witness to the muted tragedy unfolding in the shadows of the underground. As I stood among the huddled mass of passengers, the air felt thick with anxiety and confusion. Then the bright light of the train went off, leaving us in a dim light that cast shadows on the faces around me, painting expressions of worry. People whispered in hushed tones, their voices blending into a low murmur with a hint of dread, echoing off the metallic walls of the train.

I called Grace, explaining my situation briefly. My mind wandered to her reassuring voice, her calm demeanour a sharp contrast to the chaos I found myself in. She said they would wait for me as long as it took, a small comfort that steadied my nerves in the middle of the rising uncertainty. I clutched my iPhone  in my hand like a lifeline, its familiar weight grounding me in the surreal reality of our situation.

The front wagon’s door, now opened by a female Metro employee, framed the darkness of the tunnel beyond—a  spacious void that seemed to swallow the dim light. The employee continued to speak, without my understanding a word of it. I am fluent in three languages but at that moment, I was struck dumb. Her voice was steady despite the tremor I could detect beneath its surface.  As soon as she stopped, scores of passengers simultaneously voiced their inquiries, resulting in a discordant cacophony. However, the noise gradually stopped. A solitary figure detached itself from the clustered huddle, stepping carefully onto the metallic steps that marked the passageway into the unknown. The spell broken, others followed in a macabre parade, each head bowed under the burden of their shared trepidation.

Then came my turn. The chill of the cold metal seeped through the thin soles of my shoes as I placed my foot onto the fragile bridge between safety and darkness. As I stepped forward, the void rose to meet me with a cruel inevitability; the uneven platform slipped beneath my feet, and I plunged backward into an abyss of chaos, the sickening crack of impact resonating through my bones. Time splintered into fragments as I lay breathless, disoriented in the gloom. Faces loomed above me, ghostly apparitions in the muted light, their concern merging into the shadows. I do not remember their hands—if they reached out or if I clawed my way back alone, working on the filthy ground beneath me with clumsy fingers. A voice cut through the haze, directing my attention to my missing sandal—a casualty of my unsteady step. The momentary sting of injury flashed in my thigh, a burning sensation I discarded in that dim purgatory. Pain was transformed into merely another shadow, fleeting and insubstantial.

I stood up and followed the line of the evacuated passengers. Driven by necessity, we forged ahead slowly, a reluctant procession along the narrow, winding path carved alongside the dim tunnel. I followed the silhouette of a young man in black whose stride suggested confidence, while I clung to the gritty handrail on my left side, its surface soiled with coal-black soot that stained my palm. As we moved forward in the dark tunnel, the atmosphere was dense, punctuated by the occasional nervous coughs. I felt both isolated and comforted by the collective experience—an obscure bond formed in the tragedy of shared misfortune. The narrow ground beneath me was uneven forcing me to focus intensely out of fear of falling. I kept sliding my left hand on the sooted rail on the left along the wall and holding my iPhone dearly against my chest with my right hand. With each cautious step, my heartbeat synchronised with the rhythm of our movement, echoing in my chest like a soldier's drum signalling an unknown march. Behind me, there was a mother, burdened by the weight of her five-year-old daughter and her own laboured breathing, dragging herself onward. The child, now in tears clasped her mother's hand tightly. I imagined her large eyes, curious yet aware of her vulnerability, attentively surveying my grey hair and somber attire. I kept observing the concrete expanse of the service walkway - narrow, claustrophobic. The occasional faint lights that lined the tunnel walls glowed softly, illuminating graffiti and signs of age and neglect. It was a reminder that, notwithstanding our disquietude, the city above carried on, oblivious to our plight beneath its bustling streets. I took a deep breath, the cool subterranean air filling my lungs as I kept being joined to the stream of people moving toward the station's distant welcome. My focus was constantly fixed on the path at my feet, carefully navigating the claustrophobic brink between safety and the perilous railway track to my right, where electric currents lay in invisible wait. The journey had an eerie resemblance to wartime evacuations, where civilians are painstakingly ushered to safety amid chaos, and I found my thoughts drifting to the tormented mother trailing behind, burdened with the occasional cries of her child - a testament to fragility among adversity.

We continued this bleak march, bound by necessity, until a distant bright light pierced the gloom—the promise of hope lying in the embrace of a station. As we placed our feet on the platform of Place St-Henri Station, my voice weakened when I inquired of a worker about the distance we had walked in the tunnel. The employee's words echoed ominously in the thick air, "A bit more than two kilometers," as if measuring the breadth of our ordeal in anguish and trepidation. However, with a heart encapsulated in the warm embrace of satisfaction, I ventured toward the centre of the platform, seeking guidance amid the confusion that wrapped itself around us like a persistent fog. Approaching another weary employee, I inquired about the buses to Metro Vendôme. His reply, "Number 17," was a cryptic promise of salvation, yet tinged with the uncertainty that seemed to permeate every aspect of this cold, relentless Tuesday morning. 

Upon exiting the Metro, a silhouette of bus 17 loomed on the horizon, yet hope withered beneath the driver's revelation. This phantom bus journeyed in the wrong direction, and his instructions led us—four exhausted souls—to seek refuge on Saint Antoine Street. We walked as a somber procession, our footsteps marking the invisible path through uncertainty to the elusive bus stop. The wait was a merciless trial, the minutes stretching into a suffocating eternity before a lone Special bus emerged from the corner. The driver, an accidental messenger of hope, declared, "I am not bus 17, but I will go by all the Metro stations from Vendôme to Côte Vertu." The words hung in the air, illuminated by the sun,  signaling what felt like the last chapter of our distressing tale.

Disembarking at the Metro Vendôme, I wore the shroud of fatigue like a second skin, awaiting the bus 105 in the middle of the eerie tableau unfolding around me. Police cars had parked here and there, while an ambulance lingered with silent, watchful intent amid the gathering of Special buses. The wait for the bus lingered eternally, each moment a drop in the suffocating ocean of despair. I was suspended in a grim dance with time, each step closer to salvation, yet entangled by a misadventure that seemed hesitant to give up its grasp. In the chaotic swirl of the city's frantic response, buses had transformed into lifelines, each carrying stranded souls to their destinations. Half an hour later, when my bus emerged from the haze of waiting, a tremendous relief washed over me. I took a deep breath, inhaling the crisp cold air as if for the first time, and savoured the poignant realisation that the tormenting saga had reached its denouement.

The journey terminated in the safe harbour of Grace and Ken’s welcoming residence, albeit an hour behind schedule. Their faces, embellished with genuine warmth and understanding, dispelled the shadows that had trailed me from beneath the city streets. There was no need for explanation; their compassionate glances spoke volumes as they ushered me into the comforting embrace of their home. Over a steaming cup of coffee, graciously offered by Grace in her wish to erase the remnants of the day's ordeal, I found solace in the familiarity of friendship. Our conversation drifted to the intricacies of my relationship with my partner, Michael, each word a soothing balm against the backdrop of a day steeped in adversity. In that moment, surrounded by understanding and empathy, the bruises left by a dreadful Tuesday began to fade, yielding to the comforting promise of new beginnings and the enduring strength of human connection.