The Train Is About To Leave, And You Too Will Leave Me Here

     The station vibrated with sounds that felt older than time—metal creaking, wheels gathering their strength, whistles echoing like wounds that would never heal. I clutched tightly to a ticket I never bought, a journey I would never take. You sat beside me on one of the empty benches, talking about the past you found amusing. Things are so simple yet able to bring to life days gone by.

    “Do you remember,” you said in a voice that would always be familiar to my ears, “when I first told you I was going to visit you here and you sounded so excited over the phone?”

    “Of course I remember,” I said, resting my head on your shoulder. You smiled a small smile, a smile that never quite ended, like the twilight sky hesitantly closing its curtains. The sound of the train in the distance grew clearer, each thump of wheels on the tracks sounding like the unstoppable ticking of an hourglass.

    I close my eyes for a moment, letting your shoulder be an anchor that keeps my body from drifting away in fear. In my mind, all the simple conversations we once had came back: laughter that broke between broken sentences, promises made without needing to be sworn, and silence that was never scary because we knew each other was there. All of it now piles up like a fog too thick to decipher, but that's precisely where the warmth lies.

    If only we parted like that, but no.

    I had to see you standing before me, a disappointment that drowned out every hope. Our eyes met, and in that moment, I felt like I was staring into an abyss that could kill me. Where was my shame when I called your name?

    The voice from the train tracks roared, like the music of the last days that had arrived. Amidst the roar, your voice became small—a piece of singing almost lost in the wind. I felt the air around us thin, as if every breath you took sucked a little more warmth from this bench. 

    I wanted to hold your hand, to press it against my finger so you would feel the same pulse, but my hand was stiff, entrusting all my courage to a fragile foundation: words. And when the words didn't come, I realised that there was a separation deeper than physical gestures; there was a decision whispering in your mind, slow but sure, that made you stand on the edge of the platform with your suitcase as witness.

    You looked at me once more, a look that carried a mixture of forgiveness and determination, then bent down slightly as if touching something invisible—perhaps a promise you once made, or perhaps a piece of yourself you were retrieving.

    “Sorry,” you said, just a word, but the sound sent a new rumble through my chest.

    That word is like a pebble thrown into a pond—its ripples spread in all directions, waking up all the memories you and I thought were asleep. Between us, time spins slowly, giving space to weigh every inch of the remaining words.  There was anger that appeared for a moment—because it was not at you alone, but at the fate that must be pondered, at the fact that two people who once understood each other must now sign the end in a similar way as closing a book.

    “Will you visit me again someday?” I asked one last time, as if my voice would be taken away by you, and I would be speechless.

    You stared at me long, as if weighing the question with every ounce of courage you had left in your body. There was a thick pause, and then finally your voice emerged, hoarse and soft at once. “I don’t know,” you answered, simply, but within it was a world I didn’t know how to read. That word, “I don’t know,” clung to the air like dew that refuses to fall; it wasn’t a promise, it wasn’t a denial; it was just the quiet truth of uncertainty. I wanted to demand a definite answer, a guarantee I could hang around my neck to keep the fear at bay, but I knew—in a way that made my gut ache—that definite answers don’t always exist in this world.

    “Then who am I without you?”

    “You will remain whole even without me,” you whispered with sharp eyes that pierced the body and ate away at the soul.

    “Then, what about your promise to escape from this place together?”

    “I can't keep it, not with you,” you said, your voice low, almost breaking at the end.

    I stared at you, my body trembling not from the cold night, but from a mixture of anger and disappointment. “Why? Didn’t we plan it? Wasn’t this all your fault? You were the one who said this place was a prison, you were the one who said we should escape together.”

    You gripped your suitcase tighter, as if searching for a handle. “I know, and I meant it that way. But I was wrong. I thought I could fight it all, I thought we could escape with faith alone. But I found something I couldn’t ignore. Enough is enough, you’re just wasting your time and hurting yourself, running here to see me. Goodbye.”

    “I hope your words choke you,” I said, tears streaming down my face. I wanted to be angry with you for making promises that were now nothing but lies. But I couldn’t. I could only silently hope that this would hurt you too, that even without my knowledge, you would feel a tightness in your chest. But there was no hesitation in your steps at all. Leaving me in despair. I watched you walk away, toward the last train of the night.

    The train is about to leave, and you too will leave me here.