I was living with my parents at the time, working in Manhattan at Good Housekeeping magazine, my first job out of college. I commuted every morning with my fiancé, Andrew, who I later married before we moved to Vermont.
We arrived at Penn Station around 8 a.m. with 50,000 other commuters. No one acknowledged each other. Eyes focused straight ahead. We kept pace with the pack.
When it was time to part ways, our goodbyes were simple and quick. Andrew headed to the Path Train for a ride to Jersey City. I caught a subway uptown to 59th Street.
The early hours of the morning existed in a world of routine and comfort. Like so many others, it was easy, mindless and familiar to us. Our biggest worry was getting a seat on the train or having enough money on the Metrocard. It was a schedule we accepted in a world we had come to know — a world altogether different than the one that unraveled after 8:46 a.m.
I was in my boss' office before he arrived. I turned the television on to "Good Morning America," a show he watched religiously in the mornings. I was about to leave when images of a gaping hole in the north tower of the World Trade Center flashed on the screen.
A co-worker rushed in to see the footage and more people followed.
The second plane hit at 9:03 a.m.
We collectively gasped. The collisions, it became clear, were not accidental. I pressed my hand to my face in shock and disbelief.
Television played the footage over and over again. It was more of a movie than reality, not something we thought could happen 50 blocks away.
As we flipped channels, a reporter speculated that casualties might be low because of the early morning hour. Later we would learn that nearly 3,000 people died.
I spent the rest of the day trying to meet up with Andrew and catch a train back to Long Island — a challenge with cell phone service down and transportation in and out the city suspended.
My office closed mid-afternoon, as did many others. My aunt and uncle invited me to their apartment at 25th and 3rd for dinner. I walked amid a sea of people, all let out of work early as the day's events crippled business as usual.
Andrew promised to meet me if he could, but without a way into Manhattan, he worried he would have to sleep at his office.
Midtown was relatively calm, in contrast to the devastation downtown. People took their time walking, some heads bowed, others looked off into the distance.
With evening approaching, I arrived at my aunt and uncle's. We watched the news for a little while. My uncle couldn't put down his cigarettes. I thought he quit, but if any day called for an old habit, this was the one.
My aunt and I took the elevator to the roof on the 14th floor. As a little girl, the roof was always my favorite part of a visit. Today was different. I didn't search for the Empire State Building or wonder how people on the street could look so tiny. Instead, I saw my aunt's face dissolve into tears as she motioned to the plume of gray smoke hovering above Battery Park City.
That night, after we sat down to dinner, there was a knock at the door. It was Andrew.
We let out a celebratory cheer.
More than a decade has gone by and the day still feels like it was yesterday.
The last memory I have of Sept. 11, 2001, is the train ride home. By 11 p.m. the Long Island Railroad was back in service. Andrew and I sat side by side holding hands, a little tighter than ever before. We didn't speak. We leaned our heads back, interlaced fingers and closed our eyes.
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