**The Waiting Room Where Time Stands Still**
I missed my train. Not because I was delayed—just hesitated. Stupid, annoying, and, truthfully, achingly pointless. I stood on the empty platform at Southern Station, smoking for the first time in years—openly, as if there was nothing left to lose—watching the red taillights vanish into the dark. I inhaled greedily, as if meaning could be found in that smoke, something long absent. Then, suddenly, I realised: there was no hurry left. Where I was headed, nothing would change. And home… I didn’t want to go home. Only emptiness waited there. Everything I’d left behind.
I wandered along the platform, half hoping for another path, another chance, a different turn. But there was only wet tarmac, murky puddles, and my own reflection staring back. The rain was just starting—fine, cold, barely there. I stepped into the waiting room—old, draughty, cracks in the ceiling, the smell of rust, damp, and time that had stopped here years ago.
Spring existed only on the calendar. The room still smelled of winter. The radiators rattled more than they warmed, grime gathered under the benches, and the walls exhaled cold. By the window sat a woman in her forties with a boy of about eight. He ate cold pasties from a plastic box, methodically, like it was a task. His school blazer was folded neatly over his knees, a scuffed backpack at his feet. His face scrunched—those pasties must’ve been hard as rock. The woman stared through the window, hollow-eyed, hands clenched in her lap, fingers trembling—as if she were holding herself together by sheer will.
I wouldn’t have noticed them if not for her voice:
“You know he’s not coming back, don’t you?”
The words were flat, dragged up like stones. The boy didn’t react, just nodded and kept chewing. Like he’d heard it before. Like it didn’t surprise him.
I felt ashamed—not for them, for myself. For eavesdropping. For having walked away from someone too. I wanted to step back into the rain, let it numb me, strip me clean. I stood, moved toward the door, then heard:
“Don’t be angry with him. He just couldn’t. He’s weak.”
Her voice cracked on “weak,” as if saying it aloud made it real. The boy’s knuckles whitened around his fork. Silence.
I didn’t leave. I sat closer—not to interfere, but because I had nowhere else to be. The quiet between them held more truth than any shouting. The woman glanced at me, tired, not unkind.
“Sorry,” I said. “Missed my train.”
She nodded. Face like stone. Then the boy looked up and asked:
“Who left you?”
Simple. As if it didn’t need an answer—or only here, only now.
“Me,” I said. “I was the one who left.”
He nodded like he understood. “Where to now?”
“Don’t know. Here, I suppose. Then… we’ll see.”
The woman stood, unsteady. “Come on, Alfie. Our bus is in twenty.”
He packed up without a word. They left. No glance back. Just the click of the door—gone. And I stayed. Alone. In this room where time had stopped, where lives hung in the air like dust.
On the bench, a crumpled tissue. I picked it up, tossed it—like throwing away something I should’ve let go of years ago.
I sat for half an hour. Then an old man walked in—short, worn jacket, a folder under his arm, smelling of peppermint balm and chemist shops. He sat beside me. Didn’t speak. Ten minutes passed before he said:
“I come here every day. Used to meet my wife here. She’s… gone now. Still come anyway. Mad, isn’t it? But it’s all I know.”
I nodded.
“Did you love her?”
“Course. Foolishly.”
“Not foolish. Just… too late.”
He left wet footprints on the floor. I followed. The rain had nearly stopped, drops falling lazy on the pavement. Mist curled over the tracks—the station itself breathing out.
I watched him walk away, small, fragile, like a figure made of paper. And suddenly, I knew—I wanted to go home. Not to the house, but to myself. To where the light still was. Where someone waits, even if you walked away.
I bought a ticket.
The train arrived right on time. As if fate couldn’t afford to be late today. I stepped on—slowly, like I’d finally found the right track.
