We Mean Nothing to Each Other

Author Harlan CovingtonReading 13 minViews 3

The commuter train shuddered and pulled away, letting a gust of fresh air mixed with the smell of oil and dust drift through the carriage. A bright, lively gaze lingered on the two young people sitting opposite the woman with a soft, approving smile.

Sometimes you can tell at once when two people are meant for each other, she said, her voice warm. Are you already married or planning to be?

The young man and woman, each at opposite ends of the threeseat bench, lifted their heads from the screens of their devices. Their eyes met for a heartbeatconfused, questioning. Neither knew whom she meant, and both assumed she was talking about someone else.

How wonderfully the world works, the lady continued, settling more comfortably across from them. Two bright, open soulssuch a rarity these days!

Her words hung in the air, unanswered. The woman buried herself in her smartphone, while the man turned his attention back to his tablet, building an invisible wall around himself. The stranger seemed unfazed. She tucked herself in, studying the pair like museum pieces, nodding approvingly to herself now and then. Then, as if struck by sudden inspiration, she declared:

Your future children will be absolute delights! A little girlexactly like her mother! And a boy

Were not a pair, the woman whispered, cheeks flushing, cutting the womans fantasy short.

The mans lips twitched in a restrained smile.

Come off it, youre teasing me! the stranger replied with a mischievous grin, waving a hand at her. Her smile met no responseonly the serious, confirming expression on the womans face. Then her questioning eyes turned to the young man, who finally tore himself away from the digital world.

Not together? she asked, seeking confirmation.

He shook his head silently, shattering her hopeful construction.

Ah, what a waste she sighed, folding her arms across her chest, staring out the grimy window that framed the grey outskirts of the city. Where are you looking? Even the sidetracks a mess!

Had she not spoken that sharp, careless remark, the encounter might have ended as a fleeting moment on a train. Instead, her words fell like tiny sharp stones into the quiet pool of their distance, planting a seed of curiosity that, against their wishes, began to sprout. Though neither intended to break the unspoken rule of solitary travel, the whisper of that curiosity started to outvoice reason.

James.

For the fourth time he scanned the same lines on his tablet, unable to grasp their meaning. His gaze, drifting under heavy lids, landed again on the stranger beside him.

She looks straight out of a glossy advertisementdefinitely not my type, but pleasant to look at.

James usually preferred brunettes, like his girlfriend Claire, with chestnut hair and hazel eyes. Lighthaired women, like the passengers, rarely sparked more than a fleeting curiosity for him. Yet after the womans blunt comment, she lingered in his thoughts.

What an unusual lookdirect, open, with a faint spark of mischief. And that habit of brushing a rebellious strand of hair away from her face. Shes undeniably attractive, and something about her seems to shine from within

He hesitated longer than necessary, and their eyes met. A brief, embarrassed smile flared on both faces before they quickly looked away.

Emily.

Great start to the daycommuter train and a bespectacled, bearded bloke? Why does she assume were a couple? Me, with a beard? Im not into that rugged look; its just laziness. And hes far too quiet.

Scrolling endless feeds, she realized she couldnt stop thinking about the womans words. Emily glanced at the young man, wary of being seen as winking at him.

Now shell think Im flirting! she thought, but their gazes collided again. A light, almost weightless smile touched his lips, and Emily returned it unconsciously.

His faceso interesting, his gaze sharp and intelligent. Its a shame the beard hides his features, she mused, waiting for him to dive back into his tablet before studying him more closely.

Handsome, broadshouldered, looks athleticmaybe midtwenties, works in an office, perhaps IT. She lingered on his hands resting on the tablet. In that instant their eyes met once more, and the smiles that followed were steadier, more intentional.

The train let out a long sigh as it coasted to a halt and flung open its doors. A tide of commuters surged onto the sunkissed platform. The day was fading, and each passenger, like a soldier on a brief respite, fought to carve a few precious minutes from the bustle. In the crush, people bumped into each other, nerves taut as strings at the slightest snag.

Amid the crowd Emily was swept onto the platform, while James barely made it to the vestibule, stuck in the human whirlpool. He rose onto his tiptoes, scanning the colourful mass for the flash of a reddishbrown ponytail. Emily, keeping her pace, dashed along the platform, each click of her heels echoing a foolish, persistent hope: What if I catch up?

Its not meant to be, James muttered, moving slowly forward, seeing nobody who resembled the girl. The thought of a missed connection nagged at him, perhaps a way to escape cracks forming in his relationship with Claire.

He descended into the dim tunnel of the underground, suddenly lunging, sprinting the final fifty metres, and at the last moment thrust himself into the closing doors of the trailing carriage. He stoppedshe was there.

Hed watched her for a couple of stops; when she sensed his stare, she lifted her eyes. Their gazes locked again, as if old allies reunited. He couldnt suppress a grin; she gave a brief nod, an unspoken understanding passing between them.

Emily.

If you asked her why she did it, she wouldnt answer. Not from secrecy, but because she didnt understand herself. Why get off a stop early? Selfpreservation? Or perhaps fear of the sudden clarity of her own thoughts? After looping through the station concourse, making sure no one followed, she returned to the platform.

Fool! she scolded herself, fiddling with her bag strap. The panic now seemed both comic and pathetic.

James.

Stupid! he cursed silently, hurling an imaginary stone at a trash can. I should have approached her! I should have left with her! Maybe it was a sign, and I chickened out.

He alighted at his stop and, to drown his bitter reflections, ate a hot sandwich in a tiny café near the tube exit.

They met again. He was finishing his last bite when she appeared, frozen with a mouth slightly ajar in astonishment.

Are you following me? James asked, a delighted grin breaking free.

Me? Following you? she replied, a hint of offense in her tone. Will you let me pass? she asked, though the pavement lay empty and wide.

No, he answered, his face alight with boyish mischief.

Really? her lips curved, shedding any feigned annoyance.

They wandered the nightlit streets until dawn, unable to break the strange, magical bond forming between them. Both felt they had discovered the missing half of a longforgotten soul. Exhausted and drunk on happiness, they fell asleep in a modest hotel room, phones switched off, the old lives barred from their newborn world.

The next morning, James skipped work; Emily missed her lectures.

When everyone knows what happened to us, theyll forgive this sin, James said, clasping Emilys shoulders as he signed the marriage licence form.

I think Ive lost my mind, Emily laughed quietly, looking at their intertwined names on the official paper.

We both went a bit mad, James agreed, his laugh light and freeing.

They said goodbye at the registry office, promising to meet again that weekend for more mischief. But within minutes, both phones buzzed. The old lifecruel, demanding, full of debts and obligationsburst back into their fragile bubble.

Emily.

What were you thinking, you fool? What do you know about him? His parents? His background? I never expected such recklessness from my daughter! Her mothers voice trembled, a mix of anger and worry.

Emily sat, hunched on the sofa, as if caught in a serious schoolyard offense. She babbled apologies, trying to silence the inner voice echoing her mothers doubts.

And him? What does he think of you now? Met on a train and straight into? her mother snapped.

Mom, we didnt

It doesnt matter! You know nothing about him! Only God knows what he thinks! How will you live with that?

Were just tired, we fell asleep

Fool! Simpleton! I never taught you this! I was with your father for six months before She choked, tears spilling. She collapsed onto the sofa beside Emily.

Emily hugged her, feeling a tight knot form in her own throat.

Dont be like that, she whispered. I know this feels like madness, like a fog.

Take the form, please, her mother said, wiping tears, cupping Emilys face with gentle hands. If hes a good man, hell understand and wait.

Maybe we shouldnt rush? We have time to think, to know each other?

Do you like him? her mother asked, eyes intent.

Emily looked away.

Just yesterday I might not have even noticed him.

Exactly! This eclipse will pass, but the consequences linger!

What consequences? Emily asked, confused.

The ones youll ask the pharmacist about! Change your number and never call him again.

She tried to stop thinking about James, but his shy smile haunted her. Unaware of what truly drove herfear, doubt, or a vague hopeshe stepped off the train of destiny a stop early, clutching a tiny piece of plasticthe SIM card shed ripped from her phoneand tossed it to passing strangers before hopping on the next service.

James.

Think about it! Youve betrayed me! You just rode the train straight to the registry office! Claire, his girlfriend, sobbed silently, clenching her fist.

I was honest with you. I told everything as it happened, James strained, trying not to worsen the situation. You found out first.

And I should thank you for that? she shouted. Our yearandahalf? All those words of love? Do you not love me anymore?

She leaned against the window, her posture vulnerable and wounded. James looked away. No, not now, not digging into it, he thought.

What about her? Claire pressed, eyes drilling into him. Which stop did you pick her up?

Enough! James snapped. Shes just a girl. A student. We clicked. It isnt like usconstant fights and demands.

Youve known her less than a day! You know nothing! Maybe she just bounces around in trains! Claires tears began to dry, replaced by rising anger. What did she buy you?

Stop it, James muttered, still avoiding her gaze. She didnt buy me anything. It was my choice.

What does she have that I dont? Claire demanded, moving close, turning him sharply. In a flash, James saw a veil lift from that chaotic day, realizing the possible enormity of his mistake.

He took her hand, pulling her close. A blind, desperate passion seized them, and they collapsed onto a carpet.

Minutes later, breathing heavily, Claire asked, looking at the ceiling:

Is this goodbye?

Forgive me. Im a fool, James whispered. He fished his phone from his jeans, opened the SIM tray, and snapped the tiny chip in half.

A month later, both Emily and James found the other haunting their ordinary lives, each recalling that night as perfect, each blaming themselves for the collapse.

Maybe he could have found me. Its not that hard. He knows where I study! So he just didnt want to changed his mind, Emily thought.

My address was on that form. If she wanted, she could have found me, James mused.

Chance led James to a day marked on his calendar as his wedding date, near the registry office. Handing documents to a colleague, he walked along the boulevard instead of taking the tube, wandering into a park.

Ill just stroll, he told himself. He passed smiling couples, photographers, and the bustling crowd waiting outside the registry.

A stranger handed him a packet of rice.

Only dont sprinkle it on the bride; shes got a fancy hairdo.

James took the packet automatically, a simple gesture. At that moment the doors swung open, the crowd stirred. He tore a corner and spilled a handful of rice onto his palm. As he raised his hand to throw, he saw her.

Emily stood on the other side of an improvised aisle of guests, looking straight at him.

James froze, the rice still in his hand.

Hey, throw it! a voice called from his left, and on instinct he shook the packet, dumping the contents onto a passing brides head. Laughter erupted, the newlyweds chortled, the stranger grumbled, and the moment vanished into the evenings noise. James tossed the empty packet aside, stepped to Emily, and took her hands.

Sorry, they said together, the words holding remorse, hope, and promise.

Did you get your passport? James asked softly.

She only nodded, unable to speak. He lifted her onto his shoulders, climbed the steps, thanked the man with the rice, and together they entered the building, side by side.

In the end, they learned that fleeting sparks can ignite lasting flames, but only if you nurture the fire rather than chase every fleeting shadow. The true lesson: love thrives not on chance encounters alone, but on the patience and effort we choose to give it.

The Key in His Hand Rain tapped at the window of the flat in a ceaseless rhythm, like a metronome counting down to the end. Michael perched on the edge of his battered single bed, hunched as if he could shrink small enough to escape his own fate. His large hands, once strong and sure at the factory floor, now rested helplessly in his lap. Sometimes his fingers clenched, grasping for something intangible. He wasn’t just looking at the wall—he saw mapped out on the peeling wallpaper the hopeless routes from his local GP to the private diagnostic centre. His gaze had faded, like an old film stuck on a single scene. Another doctor, another knowing “Well, at your age, what do you expect?” He didn’t even feel angry anymore. Anger asks for strength, and he had none left. Only weariness remained. The pain in his back was more than a symptom—it was his landscape, the backdrop to every action and thought, the white noise of helplessness that drowned out everything else. He obeyed all the instructions: took the pills, rubbed in the balms, lay on the cold couch at the physio clinic, feeling like some disassembled machine abandoned on the scrapheap. And all the while—he waited. Passively, almost with religious patience, he waited for someone—some state service, brilliant doctor or clever professor—to finally throw him a lifeline before he slipped under for good. He watched the horizon of his life, but saw only the drizzling tapestry outside the window. Michael’s willpower, once the tool with which he solved every problem at work and at home, was now narrowed down to a single function: endure, and hope for a miracle laid at his door. Family… He had one, but it slipped away, quickly and definitively. It happened so fast. First his daughter, clever Katie, went off to London for a better life. He’d never opposed her decision—he’d always wanted more for her. “Dad, I’ll help you when I’m settled,” she’d said on the phone. But that wasn’t the point. Then his wife left—not to the corner shop, but for good. Rachel succumbed quickly—a ruthless cancer caught too late. Michael was left not only with a broken back, but a silent accusation: he, partly walking, partly bedridden, was still alive. But she, his anchor, his drive, his Ray, faded away in three months flat. He cared for her as best he could to the end. Until her cough grew raw and he saw that familiar, vanishing glint in her eyes. The last thing she said, in the hospital, clutching his hand: “Hang on, Mike…” He couldn’t. He broke, fully. Katie called, asked him to move into her rented flat, pleaded with him. But why would she need him there? In a stranger’s home. Besides, he wouldn’t burden her with his helplessness. And she wasn’t coming back. Now only Rachel’s younger sister, Val, visited—once a week, by the book. She brought soup in a tub, pasta or a couple of fishcakes, and a new box of painkillers. “How are you, Michael?” she’d ask, slipping off her coat. He’d nod, “Alright.” They’d sit in silence while Val tidied up his cramped flat—like tidying his things might somehow tidy his life. She’d leave behind her perfume and the faint, physical sense she’d performed a duty. He was grateful. And endlessly alone. His loneliness wasn’t just physical—it was a cell built from his own helplessness, grief, and strangled fury at an unfair world. One particularly bleak evening, his eyes ran over the worn carpet and landed on the key to his flat. He must have dropped it the last time he struggled in from the doctor’s. Just a key. Nothing special. A bit of metal. He stared as if seeing it for the first time—not a key, but something else. It just lay there. Quiet. Waiting. He thought of Granddad. Suddenly, brightly, as if someone had flicked on the light in a dark corner of memory. Granddad, Peter Evans, with an empty sleeve pinned to his belt, used to sit on a stool and tie his laces with one hand and a bent fork. Not rushing, but focused, giving a little victorious snort when he managed. “Watch this, Mikey,” Grandpa would say, eyes glowing with the triumph of wit over circumstance. “There’s always a tool nearby. Doesn’t always look like much—sometimes it’s rubbish. Trick is to spot your ally in the scrap.” Back then, Michael thought it was just old man’s talk, a fairytale for comfort. Granddad was a hero—heroes could do anything. But he, Michael, was just an ordinary man, and his war with back pain and loneliness left no room for heroic cutlery tricks. But looking at the key now, that old story wasn’t a comfort; it was a reproach. Grandpa never waited for rescue. He took what he had—a broken fork—and beat helplessness, if not pain or loss. What had Michael taken? Only passive, bitter waiting at the threshold of someone else’s charity. The thought unsettled him. The key—this bit of metal, echoing Granddad’s words—suddenly felt like a silent order. He stood up—first with a familiar groan, ashamed even in his empty flat. Shuffling two steps, he stretched out. Joints crunched like broken glass. He picked up the key. Tried to straighten—and the familiar white blast of pain sliced into his lower back. He froze, gritting his teeth, waiting for the wave to recede. But instead of collapsing back onto the bed, he moved, slow and careful, to the wall. Not thinking, not analysing, just following the impulse, he turned his back to the wall. Pressed the blunt end of the key against the wallpaper at the tenderest point. Then, gently, experimentally, leaned on it with his weight. No goal—to “stretch” or “massage”. This wasn’t medical. It was plain pressure. Force meeting force; pain meeting pain, reality colliding with reality. He found a spot where this struggle brought, not a new attack, but a strange dull relief—as if something inside just gave, loosened a millimetre. He shifted the key a little higher. Then low. Leaned in again. Repeated. Every movement slow, exploratory, listening for his body’s answer. Not treatment. Negotiation. The tool for these talks wasn’t a fancy stimulator, but the old door key. It was silly. The key wasn’t a cure. But the next evening, when pain returned, he tried it again. And again. Found spots where pressure brought not agony but a queer reprieve, as if he was prying apart the jaws from the inside. Then he started using the door frame for careful stretches. Noticed the glass of water on the bedside table—he ought to drink. Just water. Free. Michael stopped waiting with his hands folded. He used what he had: the key, the doorframe, the floor for the lightest stretches, his own determination. He started a notebook, not about pain, but “key victories”: “Today managed five more minutes standing at the hob.” He set up three empty baked bean tins on the windowsill, which he’d meant to bin. Filled them with earth from the front garden. Dropped a few small onions in each. Not a vegetable patch. But three tins of life, and his responsibility. A month later, at his appointment, the doctor flicked over the new scans and raised an eyebrow. “There’s been a change. Have you been doing exercises?” “Yes,” Michael said simply. “Making do with what I’ve got.” He didn’t mention the key. The doctor wouldn’t understand. But Michael did. Rescue hadn’t sailed in on a ship. It had been lying on the floor all along, while he’d stared at the wall and waited for someone else to turn on his light. One Wednesday, when Val arrived with the soup, she stopped short in the doorway. On the window, in the tinned cans, young onions were sprouting. The room smelled not of must and medicine, but something else—hopeful. “You… what’s this?” she managed, staring at him, sturdily standing by the sill. Michael, in the middle of gently watering his shoots with an old mug, turned. “An allotment,” he said simply. After a pause: “Want some for your soup? Homegrown, fresh.” She stayed longer that evening. They drank tea, and he, without mentioning aches, told her about the stairs in his block—how he climbed one flight a day now. Rescue didn’t come as Doctor Dolittle with a magic serum. It hid in a key, a doorframe, an empty tin and a plain set of stairs. It didn’t take away the pain, the loss, or his age. It just put tools in his hands—not to win the whole war, but to wage his own daily battles. And it turned out, if you stop waiting for a golden staircase from the sky and notice the ordinary, concrete one under your feet, just climbing a step at a time—slowly, with support—is life itself. And on the windowsill, in three tin cans, the brightest green onions in the world were growing. It was the finest garden imaginable.