I’m on my way to Bern. The train is, as usual, packed. The announcement just came over the speakers: passengers are reminded not to occupy seats with luggage. The classic message. But in my carriage, all the seats are taken—by actual people. When you’re crammed into a space with so many others for a certain amount of time, it’s hard to block out the conversations around you. Sure, you can shield yourself with headphones. But today, I don’t feel like it.

Thinking about it now, I might be a bit of a linguistic voyeur. Is there an actual word for that? I’m not sure.

On this trip to Bern, a young woman is sitting across from me. She’s wearing headphones and talking to someone on the phone. I can’t hear the person on the other end, which makes it even more interesting—I just imagine their replies. The woman is complaining about her boss. He used to be inspiring, she says, and she was thrilled when she became his deputy. But now, she finds him out of place in his role. A dinosaur who hasn’t evolved. She, on the other hand, has.

Apparently, he barely informs her—if at all—about decisions within the company. She finds out about things the same way the rest of the staff does. The recent round of layoffs, which he attributed to rising tariffs imposed by Donald Trump (as he announced last week), struck her as outrageous. Why is she part of the leadership team if she’s excluded from the decision-making process? She complains about his selfishness—how he only looks out for himself and barely advocates for the department. He also seems to have no concrete ideas on how to improve the situation. He appears lost and helpless. That only fuels more fear among the staff. If even the boss has no idea what to do, things must be really bad.

I listen closely as the young woman considers that, despite the obviously difficult situation, she would gladly take on his role. She has ideas on how to change things. But her boss doesn’t listen to her. She wonders whether she should speak with her boss’s boss—but hesitates, knowing the two are best friends. They’re even godparents to each other’s children. What chance would she have?

I don’t hear the responses on the other end of the call, but they seem short. When the woman realizes that she probably won’t get the opportunity to take on the role, her thoughts shift. She starts talking about finding a new job. One with a boss she could look up to. Someone she could learn from. Someone who would live up to her moral standards.

We arrive in Bern. I have to get off, she continues on. I don’t know what she ended up deciding. A shame—it would have been interesting to find out. But I understand her. Don’t we all—if we have a boss—want someone who is actually better than ourselves?