Wisława Szymborska’s Love at First Sight Brought to Life

Prologue

(As if the curtain rises)

They will tell you it was chance—
the square in Kraków, the station in Vienna,
the mist of Paris, the snow of Warsaw,
the riverlight in Budapest.

They will tell you it was nothing—
a hand brushing a book,
a shoulder grazing in a crowd,
a voice mistaken on the line.

But the truth is quieter.
The truth is this:
the world has been rehearsing them for years.
Every step, every door, every pause
was a line in a play they did not know they were in.

And now, as the lights dim,
they find themselves not at the beginning,
but in the middle of a story
already written halfway through.

Scene 1 — The Missed Encounters in Kraków

The square breathes with autumn. The air is sharp with the scent of roasted chestnuts from a vendor’s cart, mingled with the faint sweetness of mulled wine drifting from a café doorway. Pigeons flap suddenly, their wings brushing the cool air. The sound of a trumpet call drifts from St. Mary’s Basilica, cutting the afternoon silence with its plaintive notes. Cobblestones glisten faintly, as if remembering morning rain.

A man, Adam, mid-30s, walks briskly, his scarf pulled tightly around his neck. His shoes make a steady rhythm on the stones. His mind is somewhere else. Deadlines… students waiting… I shouldn’t have taken the longer route. His stomach grumbles faintly; he hasn’t eaten since morning.

On the opposite side of the square, Elena, late 20s, emerges from a bookstore. She clutches a small paper bag, the faint smell of ink and dust still clinging to her hands. The wind bites her cheeks pink. She pauses, tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, and looks toward the tram stop. She doesn’t see Adam.

For an instant, their paths nearly cross.

Adam stops to adjust his scarf. Elena bends to tie her shoelace. Their shoulders pass within a breath’s distance—close enough to sense warmth—but they never lift their eyes.

Elena (inner monologue)

The bells always sound lonelier in autumn. Maybe it’s me. Maybe it’s the season. Everyone rushing somewhere, and I… I feel like I’m always waiting for something unnamed.

Her fingers tighten on the bookstore bag. The cover of the book presses against her palm. Why did I even buy this novel? Maybe words are the only company I trust these days.

She sighs and starts walking again.

Adam meanwhile turns down a side street, the smell of coffee pulling him toward a café. Inside, voices mingle in Polish and German, the air thick with espresso and butter. He orders quickly, his voice low, the warmth of the porcelain cup finally thawing his hands.

At the same café window, Elena passes by without noticing him, her reflection ghosted faintly in the glass.

Adam (inner monologue)

Another day, another lecture. Another walk through this same square. Sometimes I wonder if life is nothing but repetitions—the same steps over the same stones. Yet the trumpet sounds… and for a second, I feel something shift. As if the city is whispering, “Pay attention.”

He takes a sip. The bitterness coats his tongue, sharp and grounding. He shakes his head, laughs at himself silently. Ridiculous.

The day slips toward evening. The square grows colder, shadows stretching like long fingers. A busker begins to play violin, the notes aching with longing. People slow their steps, caught for a moment in the melody. Elena pauses to listen, her breath misting. Adam emerges from the café just then, buttoning his coat. The same violin sound touches them both, though they do not see each other.

Elena’s phone buzzes. She answers quickly.
“Tak? …Nie, przepraszam, wrong number.”
Her voice trembles faintly. She ends the call, staring at the darkening clouds.

Adam’s phone also buzzes. He pulls it from his pocket, sees a missed call from an unfamiliar number. His thumb hovers, but he lets it go. “Probably nothing.” He slips the phone away.

For a heartbeat, the universe had tried to connect them.

They both start walking again—toward the same church staircase. Elena climbs slowly, her hand grazing the worn stone rail. Adam comes down, a few steps away. The scent of incense drifts faintly from the open doors above. Their shoes echo against the steps, the sounds overlapping but never synchronizing.

They pass. Neither turns.

Elena (inner monologue)

Funny, how many faces I forget. People pass by like autumn leaves—one moment vivid, then gone. Yet sometimes, one stays in the mind, even without knowing why. As if the air carried something… unfinished.

She looks down at the square from the steps. Adam disappears into the crowd below.

Adam (inner monologue)

There was someone just now. I didn’t even see her face properly. Only the sound of steps, light against the stone. And suddenly I felt… a flicker. A question without words. Maybe I’m tired. Maybe it’s nothing.

He shakes the thought away and continues into the fading light.

The trumpeter plays again from the tower, the notes hanging fragile in the cooling air. The square fills with twilight, and still, two figures move apart, never knowing how close they had come.

The pigeons rise again, scattering into the evening sky.

Scene 2 — Fate’s Interference in Vienna

The grand hall of Vienna’s Hauptbahnhof hums with life. The ceiling is glass, holding the gray winter sky above. Cold air sweeps in every time the automatic doors slide open, bringing with it the smell of damp wool coats and hot pretzels from a nearby stand. The metallic scent of train tracks lingers faintly, like iron and dust mixed with snow.

Announcements echo across the hall in German, then English. The voices blur into a rhythm: arrivals, departures, delays. People wheel suitcases, their wheels clicking over the polished floor like a thousand restless clocks.

Adam stands near the timetable, rubbing his gloved hands together. His train to Graz is already posted. He checks his watch. Ten minutes. Enough time to buy something warm. His stomach protests; he hasn’t had lunch yet.

He walks toward a stand, the smell of pretzels tugging at him.

Across the hall, Elena waits at a ticket counter. A muffled cough escapes her as she wraps her scarf tighter. The wool scratches her chin, and she smells faint traces of lavender soap from her morning bath. Her fingers tap nervously on the counter. The clerk finally hands her the ticket.

“Danke,” she whispers, voice hoarse.

She turns, clutching the paper, and nearly collides with Adam.

Adam: “Oh—”
Elena: “Przepraszam—”

Both voices overlap, their words tangling in the air. But neither looks long enough. She steps aside quickly, he murmurs “It’s fine,” and they move in opposite directions. Their shoulders had brushed—just enough for him to catch the faint scent of her lavender. Just enough for her to feel the warmth of his coat sleeve against the chill.

Adam (inner monologue)

Her voice… soft, hurried. And that scent—familiar somehow. Strange. Why do I notice such things today?

He shakes it off, picking up a pretzel sprinkled with coarse salt. The bread is hot, the crust crisp beneath his bite, the warmth spreading to his fingertips.

Elena (inner monologue)

I nearly dropped the ticket. How clumsy. His coat… it smelled faintly of coffee and cold air. But no, he was only a stranger. Why am I still thinking of it?

She pulls her bag closer and walks toward Platform 7.

Snow has begun to fall outside, melting into the stone as people rush toward their trains. The air smells sharper now, carrying the faint tang of smoke from a distant chimney.

At Platform 7, the whistle of a departing train pierces the station. Elena runs slightly, her boots clicking against the concrete, her breath visible in the freezing air.

Adam, meanwhile, finishes his pretzel and checks his ticket. Platform 7. He walks calmly, not realizing he is heading toward the same train.

The crowd thickens. A group of tourists blocks Adam briefly, snapping photos. By the time he pushes past, the train doors are closing. Elena stands just inside, catching her breath. Adam reaches out instinctively, his gloved hand brushing the cold metal of the door—just as it slides shut.

Adam (muttering): “Damn it…”

The train jolts forward. Elena glances toward the window. For a second, she sees him—dark scarf, tired eyes, a faint line of disappointment on his face. The image burns into her as the train carries her away.

Elena (inner monologue)

That man… the one I bumped into. He was here. Almost on this train. For a second, I thought he was looking at me. Ridiculous. Why should it matter? But still… why do I feel as if something was just stolen from me?

She leans her forehead against the cold glass. The vibration of the train hums through her bones. Outside, snow blurs into streaks of white.

Back in the station, Adam exhales heavily, the pretzel now tasteless in his mouth. He pulls out his phone, notices a missed call. The number is unfamiliar. He hesitates.

He dials back.

A soft ring. Then a voice—Elena’s—answers.

Elena: “Hallo? …Oh… wrong number again?”

There’s a pause. Adam frowns, caught by the lilt of her tone, a voice he had just heard moments ago.

Adam: “Yes, sorry. I… must have the wrong contact.”

Silence, then a faint laugh from Elena, muffled by the sound of the train.

Elena: “It happens.”

The line cuts.

Adam (inner monologue)

That voice. The same as before, I’m sure of it. First the bump, then the train, now this? What are the odds?

He stares at his phone, the weight of coincidence pressing against him like a hand on his shoulder.

The violinist from the previous scene reappears in the corner of the station, bowing a tune that weaves through the station’s echoes. Adam listens, feeling the melody cut through the noise of the departures.

He doesn’t know that Elena, miles away now, hears a child humming the very same melody in her train car. For a moment, their worlds tremble on the same note.

The train roars on, and Adam stands alone in the chill of the station, watching snowflakes melt against his coat sleeve

Scene 3 — Signs and Signals in Paris

The rain has just stopped in Paris. Drops slide down iron railings, leaving dark streaks on the stone. The Seine smells of wet earth and faint gasoline from passing boats. The air is cool and damp, brushing skin like a whispered reminder that winter is near.

Inside a library on the Left Bank, the world is quieter. Dust and old paper thicken the air, mixing with the sweet bitterness of coffee someone has smuggled in a thermos. Wooden shelves rise like sentinels, creaking faintly under the weight of time.

Elena stands by a row of French literature, her fingers grazing the spines as if each title is a door. She pulls one out, then pauses—another hand reaches for the same book.

Adam.

Their fingers brush. Warmth against warmth.

For a moment, silence reigns. The muted tick of the clock above them feels louder.

Elena (softly): “Oh… désolée.”
Adam (gently): “No, please… you take it.”

Their eyes meet, fleeting but charged. Hers are storm-gray, rimmed with tiredness. His, brown, warm but hesitant. Both feel the strangeness of it—the faint shock, the sense of déjà vu.

Elena hesitates, then pulls her hand back.
Elena: “Merci.”

She takes the book and walks away quickly, though her palms still remember the warmth.

Elena (inner monologue)

His hand. Just an accident. But why did it feel as if I’d touched it before? A stranger’s face, yet my heart stirred as though recalling a memory. Maybe it’s the city, filling me with illusions.

Adam lingers at the shelf, staring at the gap where the book once stood. His hand curls unconsciously, remembering the touch.

Adam (inner monologue)

Ridiculous. It was nothing. A simple mistake. Yet for a moment, her eyes… as if she too paused, wondering. Who was she?

He shakes his head, selecting another book, though he doesn’t really read the title.

Outside, evening descends over the park by the Seine. The lamps glow amber, their halos soft in the mist. The river carries the smell of damp leaves and autumn smoke. A light breeze stirs, sending golden-brown leaves tumbling across the path.

Elena sits on a bench, the unopened book resting on her lap. Her fingers trace the cover absentmindedly. Children play nearby, their laughter carrying like bells. One of their balls bounces astray, rolling toward her.

At the same moment, Adam rounds the corner. He bends down to catch the ball just as Elena reaches for it.

Their hands nearly touch again. This time, both laugh softly, startled by the odd symmetry.

Adam: “It seems I keep stealing things from you.”
Elena (half-smile): “Then perhaps I should keep my distance.”

Her voice trembles slightly, betraying a nervousness she doesn’t understand.

The child runs up, grabbing the ball with a breathless “merci.” Both watch him run back, the laughter of the children ringing in the damp air.

Adam (inner monologue)

Twice now. Once in the library, now here. Chance can be cruel—or playful. What is it trying to tell me?

He glances at her, wanting to speak, but the words dissolve before they form.

A leaf, loosened by the wind, drifts downward and lands gently on Elena’s shoulder. She doesn’t notice. Adam’s hand twitches as if to reach for it, then stills. She finally notices, brushing it away. Their eyes lock again, this time longer.

For a heartbeat, the world stills: the smell of the damp ground, the distant toll of church bells, the children’s laughter muffled as though underwater.

But then Elena looks away, tightening her scarf.
Elena: “I should go.”

She stands, the sound of her boots crunching against scattered leaves. Adam watches her walk toward the street, the mist swallowing her form.

Elena (inner monologue)

Why does it feel as if we’ve done this before—walked the same street, brushed the same air, exchanged the same unfinished words? I should leave before I start imagining things. Before I start believing in fate.

Adam remains by the river, his breath fogging. He looks down at his hands, empty yet strangely full. The amber light of the lamps reflects in the Seine, rippling like memory.

Adam (inner monologue)

If this is nothing but coincidence, then why does my heart refuse to let it go?

He finally turns, disappearing into the mist of the city night.

The bells of Notre-Dame sound in the distance, resonating through the damp air. Their echoes carry over the river, touching both of them separately as they walk away, unaware that the same notes are binding their memories.

Scene 4 — The Meeting in Warsaw

Snow falls softly over Warsaw, the city muffled under a white quilt. The streets smell faintly of woodsmoke from chimneys and roasted chestnuts from a vendor tucked into the corner of the square. The air is sharp, dry enough to sting the nose, and every breath comes out in a pale cloud. Footsteps crunch over snow-packed sidewalks, a rhythm both lonely and familiar.

At the entrance of a small winter art gallery, the revolving glass door creaks, its panels flecked with melted snowflakes. Inside, the air is warmer, carrying the faint tang of varnish and old paint, mixed with wool and perfume from the gathered visitors. A murmur of voices drifts through the gallery, gentle as the snow outside.

Adam approaches the entrance, pulling his scarf loose. His fingers are numb, stiff with cold. Too late again, as always. The exhibition will be crowded by now. He exhales, his breath fogging against the glass.

From the opposite side, Elena hurries, clutching a program guide. Her cheeks glow pink from the cold, and a thin dusting of snow rests on her hair. If only I had arrived earlier. Maybe the silence before the crowd would’ve let me see the paintings properly. But even late, I had to come.

Both step into the revolving door at the same time.

The glass spins. For a moment, they are sealed together in the narrow space—face to face, so close they can hear each other’s breath mingling.

Elena (startled, softly): “Oh…”
Adam (equally surprised): “Ah—sorry, I didn’t…”

Their eyes meet.

The world narrows.

His eyes hold warmth, familiar and strange at once, like a melody half-remembered. Hers carry both hesitation and quiet depth, a storm hidden under calm waters. The faint scent of lavender from her scarf drifts between them. His coat smells of coffee and snow. The closeness is overwhelming—two lives pressed against each other by chance.

The door pushes them forward, and in a heartbeat, they are outside again, snow swirling around them.

They stop, stunned. Silence hangs, only the faint whistle of wind filling it.

Adam: “We… met before, didn’t we?”
Elena: (hesitates, voice trembling) “I don’t know. Did we?”

Adam (inner monologue)

Her face—yes, the library in Paris. The park by the Seine. The train station in Vienna. The staircase in Kraków. Always there, always gone before I could hold on. And now… here. If this is coincidence, it’s the cruelest one of all.

Elena (inner monologue)

I know those eyes. I know them, though I shouldn’t. Faces blur, but his does not. Why does my heart race as if it’s recognizing something my mind cannot recall? Am I imagining this? Am I foolish to think… fate?

Snowflakes land on their hair, melting slowly into drops of cold. The night smells of frost and faint diesel from a passing bus. A violin plays faintly down the street, a melody carried on the winter air.

Elena hugs the program guide to her chest.
Elena: “Perhaps… it’s nothing. Just one of those feelings.”

Adam studies her for a long moment, his heart pounding. Then he smiles faintly, though sadness edges it.
Adam: “Or perhaps it’s everything.”

The words hang between them, raw and fragile. She lowers her eyes, unsure how to answer.

They step away from the door, side by side but not touching. The gallery behind them glows warmly, laughter and voices spilling faintly into the snow-dusted street. Around them, Warsaw feels both vast and intimate—streets lined with old stone, windows glowing like fragments of memory.

The silence stretches, but it is no longer empty. It is heavy with something unspoken, something waiting.

Elena (inner monologue)

I should leave. Say goodbye, walk away, forget this. But… why does the thought hurt? Why does every part of me whisper stay?

Adam (inner monologue)

If I let her walk away again, will fate scatter us for another thousand missed moments? Or is this the one time I must not let go?

Elena lifts her gaze. Snow gathers on her lashes, glistening faintly in the lamplight.

Elena (barely a whisper): “It feels like we’ve known each other forever.”

Adam exhales, his chest tight with something between wonder and ache.
Adam: “Yes. That’s exactly what it feels like.”

For a brief instant, time stops—their breaths visible in the cold, their eyes locked, the city’s noise fading until only the snowfall remains.

But then the spell breaks. A group of visitors bursts from the gallery behind them, laughter shattering the stillness. Elena steps back, startled, her scarf fluttering in the wind.

Elena: “I… should go.”

Adam nods, though his hands ache with the wish to reach out.
Adam: “Then maybe… we’ll meet again.”

Her lips tremble as though forming an answer, but she turns instead, walking into the falling snow.

Adam watches, his pulse echoing in his ears. Each step she takes feels like a thread pulling taut, then vanishing into the white distance.

The violin down the street plays louder now, a melody full of longing, as if mocking fate. Snow drifts into Adam’s hair, melting slowly into the warmth of his skin.

He whispers to himself, barely audible:
Adam: “Or maybe… we already have.”

Scene 5 — Sequel of Beginnings in Budapest

The Danube stretches wide and slow beneath the winter night. Its surface reflects the trembling glow of streetlamps and the golden outline of Parliament across the water. The air carries a mix of cold river dampness, roasted chestnuts from a vendor on the embankment, and faint traces of mulled wine drifting from a riverside café. Snow falls lightly, whispering against coats and hair like soft applause.

On a wooden bench near the river, Elena sits alone. The wood is cold even through her coat, seeping into her bones. She wraps her scarf tighter, inhaling its lavender scent for comfort. Her breath curls into the night as she watches the water, restless and still at the same time.

Why here, of all places? Why tonight? Perhaps I thought distance would silence it—that face, that moment in the revolving door. But instead, it follows me, clings to me like snowflakes on a sleeve. Why do I feel as though my life has been waiting for him?

Footsteps crunch against the snow. She turns her head slowly.

Adam approaches, hesitant, as though unsure if he should disturb the silence. His coat carries the faint scent of coffee again, mingled now with the cold sharpness of winter air.

Adam: “I didn’t expect to see anyone else here so late.”

His voice is low, cautious.

Elena smiles faintly, her lips pale against the cold.
Elena: “Neither did I. But here we are.”

He sits at the far end of the bench, careful not to intrude, yet close enough that the warmth of his presence reaches her. The wood creaks under the shared weight. Between them, silence folds itself gently, not empty but full of trembling questions.

Adam (inner monologue)

There she is again. As if the world has decided to give me one more chance, one more fragile opening. What if this is the last time? What if fate grows tired of offering us fragments?

Elena (inner monologue)

Why does it not feel strange? A stranger sits beside me, yet it feels like returning. His nearness steadies me, though it terrifies me too. If beginnings are only sequels, then what came before this? Where were we, when we almost met?

Adam exhales, watching his breath vanish. He dares a question.

Adam: “Do you ever wonder… if we’ve met before? Not just once or twice, but… many times. In different places. Always missing each other by a step.”

Elena turns to him, her eyes reflecting the golden shimmer of the river.

Elena: “Yes. I’ve felt it. As if life has been playing with us… pushing us close, pulling us apart. Like Chance… laughing quietly.”

She laughs softly, almost bitterly.
Elena: “It sounds mad when I say it out loud.”

Adam shakes his head.
Adam: “No. It sounds true.”

Their eyes hold longer this time, steadier. Snow collects in her hair, and he reaches out impulsively, brushing a flake away with his gloved hand. The touch is gentle, fleeting, but electric.

Elena (inner monologue)

His hand—so careful, as if he feared breaking something fragile. How can such a small touch feel like recognition?

Adam (inner monologue)

This should be nothing. Just a gesture. But my chest aches as if I’ve been waiting years to touch her hair, to know the weight of her presence beside me.

Elena looks back to the river, afraid of her own heart.
Elena: “And if it’s true? If we’ve been circling each other all this time? What then?”

Adam leans slightly closer, his voice barely above the sound of the water lapping against the banks.
Adam: “Then maybe this is not the beginning at all. Maybe it’s the middle of a story we don’t remember starting.”

His words hang in the frosty air.

A gust of wind blows, carrying the smell of roasted chestnuts. A vendor nearby calls out softly in Hungarian, the sound drifting like an echo of ordinary life. The river keeps flowing, steady and indifferent.

Elena finally lets her shoulders drop, surrendering to the moment. She turns to him fully.
Elena: “Perhaps you’re right. Every beginning is only a sequel.”

She pauses, her voice breaking with a fragile honesty.
Elena: “But I don’t want this sequel to end too soon.”

Adam’s breath catches. Slowly, as if guided by something older than both of them, he extends his hand. She hesitates for only a moment before placing hers in his. Her skin is cold, but the warmth that spreads through the contact feels like the answer to an unspoken prayer.

Adam (inner monologue)

Her hand in mine. After all the missed doors, the wrong numbers, the brushed shoulders—finally, something that holds.

Elena (inner monologue)

Maybe this is what destiny feels like. Not fireworks, not certainty—but a hand in the dark, warm against the cold, saying: you are not alone anymore.

They sit in silence, hand in hand, watching the Danube ripple gold beneath the lamps. Snow falls thicker now, softening the world around them.

The night smells of smoke, river, and chestnuts. It tastes of salt from the snow on their lips. It sounds of water and faint laughter drifting from the café. It feels like warmth found in the cold.

Above them, the sky is endless, as if holding a book already half-written.

And somewhere, softly, the poem whispers:

“Every beginning is only a sequel, after all, and the book of events is always open halfway through.”

Epilogue

(As if the curtain falls)

They sit by the river,
two hands finally holding,
two hearts finally answering.

Do not call it an ending.
Do not call it a beginning.
It is the sequel,
the continuation of what chance began
and destiny finally allowed.

Love at first sight is never the first.
It is the echo of all that almost was,
the proof that time
waits until it no longer can.

And as they walk into the snow,
the book of events remains open,
waiting for the next page,
already halfway through.

Short Bios:

Wisława Szymborska
Polish poet, essayist, and Nobel Prize laureate in Literature (1996), Wisława Szymborska is celebrated for her deceptively simple yet profoundly philosophical poems. With clarity, irony, and tenderness, she explored fate, chance, memory, and the fleeting beauty of human connection. Her poem Love at First Sight inspired this dramatic reimagining.

Adam
A fictional lecturer in his mid-30s, Adam is thoughtful, introverted, and weighed by routine. He drifts through cities and days with a quiet sense of repetition, unaware that chance is guiding him toward a love that will shake his certainty about life’s patterns.

Elena
A fictional translator in her late 20s, Elena carries a mixture of independence and longing. Haunted by the sense that she is always waiting for something unnamed, she moves through the world half in reverie, half in resignation—until destiny insists she open her eyes.