The station smelled like metal and rain, the kind that lingers after a long wait. Trains came and went, carrying other people’s futures with a confidence we never had. We stood side by side, close enough to feel warmth, far enough to pretend it was nothing.
You checked the departure board again, even though nothing had changed. I pretended to read the signs, memorizing letters that meant nowhere. We talked about small things. About how the city would be colder where you were going. About how I should finally try that coffee place near my place. Ordinary sentences, carefully chosen, like we were translating something fragile.
You said, “Take care of the things you love.”
Get A house by the ocean,’s stories in your inbox
Join Medium for free to get updates from this writer.
I nodded and replied, “Some things know how to wait.”
The loudspeaker announced your train. The sound cut through us, sharp but polite. You smiled the way you always did when you were about to leave first. I smiled back, the kind that keeps secrets intact.
We hugged. It lasted half a second longer than it should have, or half a second shorter than it needed to be. I almost said your name like a confession. You almost said mine like a promise. Instead, you whispered, “Text me when you get home.”
“I will,” I said. We both knew I would. We both knew it would never say what mattered.
You walked toward the platform without turning back. I stayed where I was, counting footsteps, counting years that might never happen. When the train finally moved, it took the noise with it, leaving only the quiet we had chosen.
Some love stays unnamed so it can survive. Some goodbyes are just codes for things we were too brave to feel and too careful to say.
