The Note by Zoe Folbigg: A London Love Story

If you’ve ever ridden the Tube in London during rush hour, you know there are some unwritten rules you simply don’t break. Don’t make eye contact. Don’t start a conversation. And absolutely, under no circumstances, don’t give a note to a stranger. And yet, in The Note by Zoe Folbigg, Maya Flowers does exactly that—and somehow, it’s both hilariously absurd and heartbreakingly romantic.

Let’s set the scene: it’s rush hour, and Maya is doing what every Londoner does best—fitting herself like a sardine into a carriage so packed you could barely lift your arms. It's the perfect storm of exhaustion, silence, and everyone around you pretending they don’t exist. We’ve all been there: shoulder to shoulder with a thousand strangers, everyone’s eyes fixed on the floor or their phones, the collective stench of body odour and the lingering scent of overpriced coffee mingling in the air. There’s an unspoken rule: you don’t speak, you don’t acknowledge anyone, and above all, you don’t even look at the person next to you.

And yet, Maya, our wonderfully spontaneous protagonist, does the unthinkable. She stands there, clutching a scrap of paper like it’s a lifeline, staring at a complete stranger across the carriage. And in a move that feels both daring and utterly absurd, she extends her hand, passing a note to someone who, much like her, is probably trying their very best to not interact with anyone on this hellish commute.

Now, let’s pause and just picture the absurdity of this moment: Maya, hand outstretched, with a note clutched between her fingers, hoping this stranger will take it. And in a city like London, where you’re more likely to exchange awkward glances with a pigeon than another human being, the idea of suddenly initiating contact feels like an act of revolution. I can practically feel the tension in the air. I mean, she might as well have been offering him a packet of crisps and a cup of tea—it’s that ridiculous.

But here’s the thing: in that one, absurd moment, it’s as though the rest of the world ceases to exist. For a second, the screeching wheels of the train fade into the background. The rush hour crowd is no longer just a mass of faceless bodies crammed into the same space; suddenly, it’s just Maya and this stranger. In that shared second, they’re both in the same orbit, both caught in a brief, fleeting moment that feels suspended in time. It's one of those rare occasions when the Tube feels personal, when the anonymity of the crowd is lifted, and you can almost feel the heartbeat of the city pulsing through the train.

It’s romantic, sure, but it’s also hilariously awkward. Imagine two people, neither of them knowing what to do with this sudden, unexpected interaction. The moment is so brief that it’s almost like a game—can she really break the silence? Will he take the note? And as Maya hands it over, it’s as if they’ve both crossed some invisible line in the sand, somewhere between the mundane and the extraordinary. Who knows what’s going to happen next?

But what makes this moment even more charming is how perfectly it captures the spirit of London. The city is made up of millions of people, and yet we’re all just wandering around, coexisting without ever truly meeting. Everyone’s on their own little journey, but for just a second, Maya and the stranger’s worlds collide, without either of them fully realising the impact it will have. It’s like being on two different planets that have just brushed past each other in the dark—there’s a spark, but you don’t notice it at first. Maya’s act of passing the note is both a bold nope, I’m not doing the usual London thing statement, and yet it’s also so desperately hopeful. It’s a kind of “maybe this will mean something” in a city where nobody expects anything to mean anything at all.

And then, of course, there’s the humour in it all. If there’s one thing every Londoner knows, it’s how utterly ridiculous the idea of initiating contact on the Tube is. I can almost imagine Maya, after handing over the note, quickly looking away, pretending it never happened, as if she’d just committed a public crime. Like, “Did I just do that? Am I going to be arrested for Tube misbehaviour?” But there’s something so sweet and daring about it that it just feels like the right thing to do, even if it goes against everything London commuters have learned to survive on public transport.

The beauty of this moment lies in the way it feels so real. In a city that thrives on being impersonal, Maya’s gesture stands out as a small, but powerful rebellion. She’s challenging the city’s unwritten rules in the most charmingly awkward way possible, and we can’t help but root for her. She may be giving a note to a stranger on a packed train, but in that moment, she’s taking a chance on life, on connection, and on the idea that maybe, just maybe, something special can emerge from the strangest of circumstances.

Ultimately, it’s not just a note—it’s a message of hope. A single moment in time where two people wander around the same city, unknowingly close to each other, and then, for just a heartbeat, everything aligns, and they almost meet. It’s a reminder that in a city like London, where we’re all rushing around, caught in our own little worlds, it only takes a single, small act to change everything.