The Escalator to Somewhere Soft

The city hums outside, a low vibration of steel and ambition that never truly sleeps. Here, in the belly of the transit station, I am suspended between floors—neither here nor there, but caught in a perpetual state of becoming.

My skin feels cool against the humid air of the tunnel, yet my palms press firmly into the metal handrails for balance. They are cold to the touch, like old memories that refuse to fade. The light above is clinical, slicing through the gloom, highlighting every curve and shadow as if trying to map out a soul in transit.

I close my eyes for just a heartbeat. I can almost taste the rain-washed air of our hometown—the way it smelled after midsummer storms when we would walk until our shadows stretched long across the cobblestones. You weren't there today, but your absence feels like a physical weight, an anchor in this sea of moving bodies.

This escalator is my secret sanctuary. It moves with a steady rhythm that mimics a heartbeat. Every step upward is a quiet reclamation of self; every moment downward is a gentle surrender to the gravity of longing. I am not just traveling between stations; I am navigating the winding paths of what we were and what might still be.

In this fleeting space, under the watchful gaze of fluorescent tubes, my vulnerability feels like strength. To stand exposed in such public solitude is an act of courage—a silent invitation for someone to see me not as a body moving through time, but as a woman waiting for her own season of healing.

Editor: Lane Whisperer