The Echo of a Departing Train

The train hums—a low, vibrating pulse against the platform’s concrete skin. It is a mechanical heartbeat for a city that never sleeps but often dreams in shades of gray. I stand here, caught between where I have been and where I am afraid to go.

My hair dances with the draft from an approaching carriage, like silk threads unraveling under my touch. The wind carries scents of iron, ozone, and something softer—perhaps your perfume lingering on a sweater you left behind. People call this station a place of transit, but for me, it is where time stretches into thin ribbons.

I turn back to look at the passing windows, watching faces blur like watercolors in rain. One moment, I am visible; the next, swallowed by shadows and glass. It’s my favorite kind of intimacy—to be seen without truly being known.

You are not here yet, but you occupy every empty space between the tracks. The warmth on my skin isn't from the afternoon sun hitting the platform; it is the phantom pressure of your gaze against my spine. I wear this white garment like a secret kept in plain sight—a soft vulnerability exposed to the world’s indifference.

The train pulls away, its whistle a lonely cry into the dusk. My heart remains on that moving metal body, while I stay behind: still and waiting for our next collision.

Editor: Shadow Lover