I was supposed to catch the 12:25 to Richting Groenplatax. That was the plan. Quick commute, nothing fancy. But then I stepped off the escalator at Sint-Anna and the whole afternoon just... shifted.
There's something about a station market that does this to me. Not the tourist kind with overpriced trinkets, but the real ones tucked into the underbelly of daily life. This one sits right there between the platforms and the stairs, fruit and vegetables spilling across crates like someone just decided to arrange color itself. Oranges, tomatoes, greens that actually look like they came from somewhere specific, not a sterile distribution center.
I stopped. Didn't mean to. The light in there is strange, fluorescent and warm at once, bouncing off the tiled floor and making everything look both ordinary and slightly dreamlike. A couple of people were picking through the produce, completely unbothered by the fact that trains were leaving upstairs. An older woman held a tomato up to the light like she was checking for secrets.
I grabbed a baguette, some greens, tomatoes that still had the soil-smell on them. Stood there with my paper bag, watching the flow of people move past. Some rushing, some lingering like me. The sign overhead kept changing, announcing destinations I'd never heard of. It made me wonder what those places taste like, if they have their own markets, their own small moments hidden in the everyday.
I missed that train. Didn't care. Sat on the platform eating bread and tomatoes, tasting the afternoon instead of just passing through it. That's what happens when you actually look at where you are.