**Diary Entry**
I missed my train. Not because I was delayed—I just hesitated. Stupid, frustrating, and, if I’m honest, utterly hopeless. I stood on the empty platform at South Station, smoking for the first time in years—openly, like I had nothing left to lose—watching the red tail lights of the train vanish into the dark. I dragged on the cigarette greedily, as if meaning could be found in that smoke, when there had been none for so long. Then it hit me: there was no rush. Where I was headed, nothing would change. And home… I didn’t want to go home. Only emptiness waited there. Everything I’d walked away from.
I shuffled along the platform, half-hoping I’d find another path, another chance, a different turn. But there was nothing—just wet tarmac, murky puddles, and my own reflection staring back. The rain had just begun, light and cold, barely noticeable. I stepped into the waiting room—old, drafty, cracked ceilings, the scent of rust, damp, and time itself frozen in place.
Spring was only on the calendar. The room still smelled of winter. The heaters creaked more than they warmed, grime gathered under the benches, and the walls exhaled a chill. By the window sat a woman around forty with a boy maybe eight years old. He was eating cold sausage rolls from a plastic box, methodical, like it was a task. His school blazer was folded neatly over his knees, a worn rucksack at his feet. He chewed carefully, wincing—clearly the rolls had hardened to stone. The woman stared through the window, hollow-eyed, hands clasped so tightly her fingers trembled. Like she was holding herself together by sheer will.
I wouldn’t have noticed them if her voice hadn’t cut through the silence:
“You know he’s not coming back, don’t you?”
The words came out ragged, like she’d scraped them from her ribs. The boy didn’t react. Just nodded and kept eating, as if this wasn’t the first time he’d heard it. As if there was nothing left to say.
I felt ashamed. Not for them—for myself. For eavesdropping. For having walked away from someone else once, too. I wanted to step back into the rain, let it scour me clean, forget. I stood, moved toward the door, then heard her add:
“Don’t be angry with him. He just couldn’t. He’s weak.”
Her voice cracked on *weak*, like she’d only just realised it was true. The boy’s knuckles whitened around his fork. He stayed silent.
I didn’t leave. Somehow, I turned back, sat closer. Not to intrude—just because I had nowhere else to be. The quiet between them held more truth than any scream. The woman glanced at me, tired but not unkind.
“Sorry,” I said. “My train left a bit early.”
She nodded, her face stone. The boy looked up suddenly and asked:
“Who left you?”
Simple, like it didn’t need an answer. Or maybe it did—right here, right now.
“I did,” I admitted. “I was the one who left.”
He nodded, as if he understood. Then: “Where are you going now?”
“Don’t know,” I shrugged. “Here, for now. Then… we’ll see.”
The woman stood, unsteady.
“Come on, Jack. Our bus is in twenty.”
He packed his things without a word. They left. Didn’t look back. The door clicked shut, and they were gone. I stayed. Alone. In that room where time had stopped, where the smell of other lives lingered.
I glanced at the bench. A crumpled napkin lay there. I picked it up, tossed it away. Like throwing out something I should’ve let go of years ago.
I sat for half an hour. Silent. Then an old man walked in—short, in a worn coat, a file tucked under his arm. He smelled of peppermint balm and medicine. He sat beside me. Didn’t speak. Ten minutes passed. Then he said:
“I come here every day. Out of habit. My wife and I used to meet here. She’s… gone now. But I still come. Silly, I suppose. But I don’t know how else to be.”
I nodded.
“Did you love her?”
“Stupidly.”
“No love’s stupid. Just… ill-timed,” he said. Then nothing more.
He left, wet footprints trailing behind. I followed. The rain had nearly stopped, sluggish drops hitting the tarmac. Steam rose from the tracks, like the station itself was sighing.
I watched him go—small, fragile, a figure the wind might carry off. And suddenly, I knew: I wanted to go home. Not to a house. To myself. To the place where light still lingered. Where someone waits, even if you’re the one who walked away.
I bought a ticket at the kiosk.
The train arrived on time. Precise, as if fate had decided not to be late today. I stepped aboard—slowly, like I’d finally found the right direction after years of wandering.
