Still Choosing You: A Poem About Loving Someone After Goodbye

 

The Unlikely Tree — Meant to Be Forever

We were not a mistake.
No.
We were meant to be.
In every star I counted,
In every whisper I made into my pillow at night,
It was always you.
Always us.

I didn’t imagine this love.
I didn’t dream it up out of loneliness or desperation.
It was real.
You held my heart like it belonged in your palms,
And I swear—
I swear, my love—
It beat for you, just for you.

We were a tree growing from the same soil,
Our roots tangled under the quiet earth,
Drinking from the same longing,
Breathing the same sky.
And I…
I thought this would be forever.

But something happened.
Something small at first—
Maybe a look, maybe a silence.
Then a shift.
A crack.
A breath too far away.

And now—
Now it’s night.
Now I am alone.
Now everything that was once us
Is ash on my hands,
Smoke in my lungs,
Pain in my ribs that no one can see.

I laugh—
Fake.
Ugly.
Hollow.
Because if I don’t, I’ll cry again,
And I’ve cried too much already.

I punch the bag until my knuckles scream,
Until my breath forgets how to carry your name.
I talk with friends and make jokes,
Smiles stitched into place like lies.
Just to ease my ache.
My torment.
Yes, that’s the word.
The torment of losing what felt like destiny.

You were my destiny.
I never doubted that.
Even now, with the silence growing louder between us,
Even now, when you won’t come back—
You are still the one I imagined grey hair and soft mornings with.
Still the one I wanted to find God beside.
Still the one my soul knew before my eyes did.

It hurts.
God, it hurts.
Because it wasn’t supposed to end.
Not like this.
Not so fast.
Not without a war.
Not without at least a scream, a fight, a final kiss.

But you left.
Or maybe I broke.
Or maybe both of us did.
I don’t know.

What I do know is that tonight feels different.
Colder.
Empty in a way that echoes.
I lie in bed listening to the ghosts of our laughter.
To the soft sound of what once was.
To the forever that never got its chance to begin.

And still—
Even now—
Even with these wounds and this silence and this wreckage—
I would choose you again.
Again and again and again.

Because we were not a mistake.
We were not an illusion.
We were the unlikely tree that grew with all its heart
Even in the wrong season.

And maybe—
Maybe love like ours doesn’t die.
Maybe it just
Waits
For a better time,
A kinder world,
Or the next lifetime.

Until then,
I will carry you—
Every broken branch,
Every beautiful bloom,
Every soft whisper of what we were.

Not because I can’t let go.
But because
You will always be
My forever.

Was My Love Fake? A Deep Cry for Truth and Closure

 

Seriously, Baby?

I tried.
God knows how hard I tried.
To reach you—
arms out, heart open,
even when you turned your back
like my love was too loud for your silence.

You kept yourself far,
far like a shore that vanishes
just as my fingertips brush the horizon.
And maybe—maybe it was my fault.
Or maybe there was no fault at all.
Because I search inside me
again and again,
and I still don’t find the sin
you punished me for.

If I was wrong,
then tell me.
Show me.
Speak to me like I mattered once.
Don’t run away
and toss my love into the fire
like it was trash to forget.

You said my love was fake.

I want to hold your face,
lift your chin with trembling fingers—
look you in those eyes you hide behind
and ask you:

Do you really mean it?
Do you really believe
I used you?

Baby.
Seriously?

If I did,
if I was a user,
then I pray—
with every drop of my soul left—
let the universe, the stars,
the galaxies,
never let us meet again.
Because I swear—
swear on the cosmos—
there was not even
0.1% of me
that was untrue.

My love for you—
it was my pride.
The fire I carried
in daylight and in dark.
The thing I wore like armor
and still let it be soft.

But when I heard your voice,
your words,
those sharp, careless words—
I broke.

This was the last thing
I ever needed to hear.
This was the one thing
that could destroy me.

And you said it.

You don’t know, baby—
how much I screamed,
how my knuckles bruised from punching pain,
how my pillow soaked in cries I swallowed
just to keep breathing.

You don’t know.

And what should I say now, huh?

That when I held you—
when I wrapped my arms around you,
when I pulled you close
and pressed your head to my shoulder,
when I kissed you with prayers
hidden in the quiet of my lips—
that was fake?

All of it?

Seriously?

Then ask yourself,
look into your own eyes—
and when your heart stops running,
you’ll know.
You’ll fall to your knees with the weight of it.
Because love like mine doesn’t come in disguise.
It comes raw,
it comes real,
and it comes once.

If you still think I used you,
then I have nothing left to say.

Nothing.

Whispers on the Train: A Slow-Burn Lesbian Love Story of Healing and Serendipity

 

Chapter One: The Girl on the Train

The train moved with a rhythm that felt too familiar—like the beating of a tired heart that had learned to keep going even when it didn’t want to. She sat by the window, her fingers tracing the smudged glass absently as the scenery blurred into shades of green, gray, and memory.

She wasn’t running away, not exactly. But she wasn’t heading anywhere specific either. It was one of those in-between journeys, the kind that didn’t ask for a destination—only escape.

Her name was Mira.

She looked calm to anyone passing by—maybe even a little lost in thought, in that poetic way people imagine when they see a lone girl by a train window. But inside, Mira wasn’t calm. Inside, she was still trying to pick up the pieces of herself she didn’t even remember dropping.

Once, not too long ago, she had fallen in love. The kind of love that starts with a spark and ends in ashes. It had felt real at first, intense, consuming. She had given herself, bit by bit, to a boy who held her heart with hands that never knew how to hold softly. At first, it was fights that ended in apologies. Then, it was apologies that never came. She stayed—because she believed love meant holding on, even when it hurt. But the more she stayed, the less she recognized the girl in the mirror.

She became quiet—not the peaceful kind, but the kind that comes from fear. She started calculating her words before speaking, monitoring her reactions, apologizing for things that weren’t even her fault. Her laughter, once loud and unfiltered, became cautious. Her dreams shrunk. Her spirit cracked. And when she finally walked away, it wasn’t with a sense of freedom—it was with trembling hands and a heart that didn’t know how to feel safe anymore.

Now, the train felt like the safest place she could be—somewhere between the past and a future she hadn’t imagined yet.

The carriage was half-empty. People dozed off or stared at their phones. Vendors passed occasionally, their calls blending into the hum of motion. Mira exhaled and leaned back, trying not to think, but her chest ached in that quiet, sharp way memories often return.

And then, it happened.

She looked up—and saw her.

A girl had just entered the compartment. She wasn’t particularly loud or noticeable, but something about her felt… different. Mira couldn’t explain it. The girl was tall, maybe just a little older than her, dressed simply—black jeans, an oversized hoodie, hair tied into a careless bun. But it was her eyes that caught Mira. Eyes like stories. Deep, unreadable, but warm—like they had seen pain and decided to survive it with softness.

Mira looked away quickly.

There was something unsettling about that moment. It wasn’t attraction—not exactly. It wasn’t fear either. It was something in-between. Something Mira hadn’t felt in a long time. A strange flutter, as if her soul had recognized something before her mind could.

She didn’t want to look again. She couldn’t. The girl felt bigger than the space around her, like someone who carried oceans under her skin.

And Mira… Mira was still trying to learn how to swim.

So, she focused on the window again, pretending the trees outside were more interesting than the soft presence that had settled across the aisle. But her thoughts had already shifted. Not toward the past. But toward the girl with the ocean eyes.

And for the first time in a long while, Mira wasn’t just remembering. She was noticing.

---

The train swayed slightly as it pulled out of the old station, the wheels humming against the tracks like a lullaby sung by a tired mother. Mira sat by the window, her cheek resting against the cold glass. Outside, trees blurred into one another, their bare branches clawing at the sky. It was early spring, but the air still held onto winter like a secret it wasn’t ready to give up.

Her fingers fidgeted with the frayed end of her scarf. She didn’t like silence, yet somehow today, it felt comforting. Or maybe it was just easier than facing the loud memories that still echoed inside her.

She closed her eyes for a moment. And he came back.

The screaming.
The apologies.
The endless cycle of being hurt and then held.

How love had turned into control. How “I miss you” had begun to sound like “You can’t leave me.” How she had forgotten what her own laughter sounded like.

It wasn’t always like that. When she first met Aryan, he was poetry in motion—intense eyes, quick wit, soft voice. He knew how to make her feel seen, known, special. Until one day, he started seeing her too much—tracking her every move, doubting every word. “Why didn’t you reply?” “Who were you talking to?” “Why are you wearing that?”

Bit by bit, he chipped away at the girl she used to be.

And when she finally left, she wasn’t Mira anymore. Not fully.

A loud whistle brought her back.

She blinked. The train was slowing down, pulling into a station. Her eyes, still foggy with old tears, scanned the platform. People rushed, some with baggage, others with nothing but restlessness. And among them—

A pair of eyes.

Wide, still, deep. Not piercing, not cold. Just… observing. Mira’s gaze locked with hers for a second too long. The girl looked away, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear, but the moment remained—hung in the air like the smoke trailing from the engine.

Mira felt something she hadn’t in a while.

Curiosity.

The girl boarded the train and walked past her, and for a heartbeat, Mira’s breath hitched.

She didn’t understand why.

She shook her head and looked away, but her chest felt tight. Not in a painful way. In a “what was that?” kind of way. Something about that girl—her stillness, her silence, her energy—was almost magnetic. But Mira wasn’t ready. Not for anything new. She didn’t want stories. She wanted peace.

But sometimes, the universe writes its own chapters.

“Excuse me,” a voice said.

Mira looked up. The same girl stood by the seat opposite hers. “Is this taken?”

Mira blinked. “Uh… no. It’s free.”

“Thanks.” The girl smiled, soft and brief, like a secret only she knew. She sat down, adjusting her coat, and placed a dog-eared book on her lap. Mira caught a glimpse of the cover—Woolgathering by Patti Smith.

“You read Patti?” Mira asked, surprising even herself.

The girl looked up. “You do too?”

Mira nodded. “A little. Not lately.”

“I love the way she makes pain sound like music,” the girl said. “And silence sound like home.”

Mira swallowed. “Yeah… exactly.”

The girl didn’t ask more. She just opened her book, eyes scanning the page. Mira turned back to the window, but now the trees looked different. Softer, maybe. Or maybe, it was just her breathing for the first time in months.

Chapter 1 – Continued: The Space Between Stops

Mira shifted in her seat, legs pulled up and her arms loosely hugging her knees. Her eyes kept drifting—unintentionally, frustratingly—to the girl sitting across from her. Nia. That was her name. She’d said it so casually, like it didn’t carry the weight of someone new entering Mira’s life at a very strange hour.

The train rocked gently, metallic lullabies humming beneath their feet.

Mira thought, Why do I keep looking at her? Maybe it was the way Nia looked at her without needing to say much, like she was reading through the cracks. Not pushing, not pulling—just being.

She hated that it felt comforting.

And that made her panic.

“I like your tattoo,” Nia said suddenly, nodding toward Mira’s wrist.

Mira blinked, then glanced down. The small, delicate ink of a moth with crescent wings, barely visible under the cuff of her sleeve.

“Thanks,” Mira replied, her voice quieter than she meant it to be. “It… means change.”

Nia tilted her head. “Change as in… who you were before?”

Mira looked away, the passing trees a blur in the window. “Yeah. Something like that.”

Silence again—but not the awkward kind. The space between them felt padded, soft. Safe.

Mira wanted to run. And yet, she didn’t move.

You’re just being dramatic again, her ex used to say. You read too much into things. You feel too much.

But Nia didn’t seem to mind her silences. Her presence didn’t demand anything. It didn’t guilt-trip or shrink Mira. That scared her more than if it did.

“You’re far away right now,” Nia said gently, breaking the quiet.

Mira gave a slight shrug. “I guess I still live in my head a little too much.”

“I think that’s okay,” Nia said. “Some people live out loud. Some people live inward. You’re still living.”

That struck her. Still living. After everything, Mira wasn’t sure she had been.

“I’m not always like this,” Mira muttered. “I mean—I used to be… louder. Freer. But then—”

“You don’t have to tell me,” Nia cut in, her voice kind but firm. “Only if you want to.”

Mira swallowed, her fingers fiddling with the edge of her sleeve.

“No, I want to. I just don’t know how.”

Nia leaned back, gazing out the window for a moment. “You don’t have to know how. Just speak. I’m not here to judge.”

And so Mira did. She spoke. Slowly at first. Her words were like chipped porcelain, fragile and cautious.

“I was with someone for a long time,” she began. “He wasn’t… violent or anything. But it was like… he was always reaching inside me, pulling out pieces, and replacing them with his own. Until one day, I couldn’t find myself anymore.”

Nia didn’t flinch. Didn’t look pitying. Just listened.

“It started small—jealousy, constant checking in, manipulating my words. Then came the isolation. I stopped hanging out with my friends. Even my mother said I wasn’t the same. And I wasn’t.”

A pause.

“Leaving wasn’t brave. It was desperate. I thought I’d suffocate.”

Nia nodded softly, like she understood that kind of breathless survival.

“Sometimes,” Mira continued, “I wonder if he ever really loved me or if he just loved controlling me. But I guess it doesn’t matter now.”

“It does matter,” Nia said, leaning slightly forward, voice steady. “Because that question? That’s where the healing begins. You’re still trying to name the wound. And that’s the bravest part.”

Mira stared at her. Who talks like that?

She didn’t say it out loud, but her heart whispered it.

Why does this stranger feel safer than anyone I’ve known in years?

The silence that followed wasn’t empty.

It was full. Full of all the things neither of them said, yet both of them felt in the marrow of their bones.

Mira stared at Nia. Not directly—she couldn’t. She wasn’t ready for that kind of honesty yet. But she stared at the soft curve of her jaw, the way her fingers absentmindedly traced the ridges of the windowpane. She watched the way Nia breathed, slow and steady, like someone who wasn’t afraid of stillness.

Mira had been afraid of stillness for years. Stillness meant the thoughts caught up. Stillness meant she heard his voice in her head. Stillness meant facing everything she kept locked in a chest marked “too much.”

Nia broke it softly. “Do you believe in… people meeting for a reason?”

Mira’s chest stilled for a beat. The question felt too on the nose.

She didn’t answer right away. She shifted her gaze to the space between their knees. Not touching—but close. Almost too close.

“I used to,” Mira said finally. “Now I’m not sure. Life feels more random than romantic.”

Nia nodded, not in agreement but in understanding.

“I think,” Nia whispered, “even randomness can have timing. Like—maybe not everything’s meant to happen, but some things… are allowed to.”

Allowed to happen.

Mira’s throat clenched. She’d never thought of it like that.

“Maybe,” Mira said, her voice a touch rough. “Maybe the universe gives you a break sometimes. A moment. A person. Just enough to keep you breathing.”

Nia turned to look at her then. Really looked.

And Mira looked back.

There was something terrifyingly intimate about eye contact with someone who sees you. Not the way your ex used to stare to judge, or how strangers looked to compare. But to be seen like a story unfolding in slow motion.

It made Mira feel naked in a way clothes couldn’t cover.

“You look like someone who survived a fire,” Nia said, not unkindly.

Mira’s lips parted, but she couldn’t respond. Not right away.

Instead, her mind whispered, What if this is not random? What if she’s not here by accident? What if this girl with the quiet voice and storm eyes is exactly what I needed to remember who I was?

“You don’t even know me,” Mira muttered.

“No,” Nia replied. “But I’m not afraid of getting to.”

Their eyes locked again. This time, Mira didn’t look away.

She didn’t realize her hand had relaxed, fingers unclenching from her knee. She didn’t realize her heart, while still a little guarded, had shifted its posture—slightly open. Slightly curious.

The train hissed as it slowed near a rural station, light spilling into the carriage like golden water.

A woman with two children got off. An old man climbed in. A moment passed, unnoticed by most.

But Mira noticed.

Because for the first time in a long time, she didn’t dread reaching her destination.

For the first time, she wondered if she wanted this ride to last a little longer.

Chapter 1 (Continued): A Station Between Heartbeats

The train hummed softly, a low mechanical lullaby. Outside the window, fields blurred past, washed in golden haze. Mira tried to pretend she was watching them, but she wasn’t.

She was watching her—Nia.

Nia had settled in the seat across from her, legs drawn up slightly, a worn book open in her lap but barely touched. Her eyes were the kind you don’t meet fully the first time. They held something—quiet, unspoken—but it wasn’t distant. Mira had stolen glances, but every time their eyes met, it felt like her insides flinched.

It wasn’t attraction, not the way movies show it. It was more like recognition. Like something ancient. Mira didn’t know what to make of it.

Nia spoke first.

“You’ve been staring out that window for twenty minutes, and I don’t think you’ve seen anything.” Her voice was calm, like she wasn’t teasing. Just… seeing her.

Mira blinked, caught. “Sorry. I’m just—thinking.”

“That’s allowed,” Nia smiled, and then paused. “Thinking about something worth running from or going toward?”

The question stilled Mira. She looked down at her hands, thumbs circling each other unconsciously.

“Maybe both.”

Nia didn’t ask further. She just nodded like she understood.

A moment of silence passed between them. The kind that didn’t feel empty.

“Do you always talk to strangers on trains?” Mira asked, partly to shift the attention.

Nia grinned. “Only the ones who look like they need to be heard.”

Mira half-laughed, unsure if she should be flattered or embarrassed. “So, what do I look like?”

Nia tilted her head, genuinely thinking. “Like someone who once tried really hard to love someone who couldn’t receive it.”

Mira’s throat tightened. She blinked hard.

“How the hell did you—?”

“I’ve been there,” Nia said softly. “You start shrinking parts of yourself to fit into their version of love. And then you forget what your own shape feels like.”

Mira leaned back, her body suddenly heavy. She hadn’t expected this. She hadn’t expected her.

They fell into silence again, but now it was different. Shared. Nia went back to her book, letting Mira have space.

But then, a question escaped Mira before she could stop it.

“Did you ever forgive yourself for it? For staying too long?”

Nia looked up, met her eyes. There it was again—that slow understanding, like she’d already seen this version of Mira before.

“I think I’m still learning how,” she whispered. “But I don’t hate that version of me anymore. She loved deeply. That’s not a weakness.”

Mira nodded, her chest full of something fragile.

The train jerked slightly, slowing as a station neared. Neither of them moved. Nia leaned a bit closer now, elbows on her knees.

“Can I tell you a secret?” she said.

Mira looked at her. “Yeah.”

“I wasn’t planning on talking to anyone on this ride. I’ve been avoiding people all week.” She smiled softly. “But the moment I saw you, something told me I had to.”

Mira felt her breath catch.

There it was again—that ripple of something she couldn’t name.

“I don’t even know your last name,” Mira whispered.

“Do you want to?”

“I don’t know,” Mira replied, a small, wry smile creeping onto her face. “Maybe I don’t want this to be real yet. Maybe I just want this… strange, quiet space on a train. With you.”

Nia nodded. “Then let’s stay here. Just two people in motion, no last names. For now.”

They both looked out the window, shoulder to shoulder, the silence louder than before—but in the best way. Something had cracked open.

And neither of them wanted the train to stop.

A Station Between Heartbeats

The train had picked up again, gliding forward with the kind of rhythm that lulled you into forgetting time. Mira sat still, her body aware—too aware—of Nia’s presence beside her.

It wasn’t just proximity. It was the way the air between them felt charged, humming low like a violin string stretched but not played.

“So… what’s your favorite kind of silence?” Nia asked suddenly.

Mira blinked at the question. “Favorite kind?”

“Yeah,” Nia smiled faintly. “There are kinds, you know. Like the silence of early morning. Or the one after a fight. Or the one when someone holds you and says nothing, but everything’s understood.”

Mira turned to her slowly, a small breath escaping. She had never thought of silence that way before.

“Mine used to be the silence of books,” she said after a moment. “That quiet that wraps around you when you’re lost in a story. But now, maybe… this.”

She didn’t say it out loud—this, meaning the space between her and Nia. But her eyes did.

Nia looked at her, just long enough for Mira to feel seen again. Not watched. Seen.

They didn’t talk for a while after that. The silence changed its texture—softer now, like a shawl shared between them.

Mira shifted slightly, their arms brushing. The contact was barely anything. Just fabric grazing fabric. But Mira’s breath hitched, and for a second, she wasn’t sure if it was her heart that skipped or the whole train.

Nia didn’t pull away.

Mira didn’t either.

“So,” Mira whispered, “what about your silence? Your favorite one?”

Nia’s gaze dropped to their barely touching arms. “This one’s climbing up my list.”

A faint smile pulled at Mira’s lips, shy and disbelieving all at once.

“I used to think connection came with fireworks,” she murmured. “Drama. Explosions. But this feels like…”

“…like the stars have always been there,” Nia finished gently, “and you’re just now learning how to look up.”

Their eyes met again. Not as strangers this time. Not even as friends, not yet lovers. But as something in-between. Something unnamed but real.

A vendor walked through the aisle, breaking the moment. Mira blinked away, clearing her throat. “Want some tea?”

“Only if you pick for me,” Nia replied.

Mira nodded, happy for the small task. But her fingers still tingled where they had brushed.

She didn’t know what this was yet. And maybe she didn’t have to.

But she was sure of one thing—some people enter your life like a train entering a station. Loud. Sudden. Temporary.

But others?

Others sit beside you quietly, and suddenly the journey changes.

Somewhere Between Stops

The tea was lukewarm, overly sweet, but neither of them complained.

Mira passed the clay cup to Nia with a soft, “Here.”

Their fingers brushed again—this time, a second too long to be accidental.

“Thanks,” Nia murmured, taking a sip and licking a trace of tea from her upper lip. Mira looked away quickly, then back, as if caught between her own curiosity and restraint.

Outside, the scenery blurred into a soft, golden monotony—wheat fields, small stations, villagers sitting on platforms with metal trunks and sleepy children. But inside their coach, the world was slowing down. Or maybe just sharpening.

“So,” Mira said cautiously, “what are you running from?”

It was the kind of question people don’t usually ask strangers.

But Nia didn’t flinch. She looked at Mira for a long time, her smile faltering, then said softly, “I guess I’m not running. Just… pausing. You ever feel like life’s too loud sometimes?”

“All the time,” Mira replied without hesitation.

Nia nodded, looking out the window. “There’s a version of me everyone expects. Bright. Certain. Always sure. But sometimes I want to forget what I’m supposed to be and just… breathe.”

Mira’s voice dropped to a whisper. “That’s why you took this train.”

“That’s why we both did, maybe,” Nia said quietly.

The train jolted slightly—just enough to make their shoulders touch again. This time, neither pulled away.

Nia turned toward Mira, her expression softer now, almost vulnerable. “You looked so far away when I first saw you. Like you were walking through ghosts.”

Mira swallowed hard. “I was.”

Nia didn’t push. She waited, sipping her tea slowly.

Mira’s fingers traced the rim of her own cup. “There was someone. A boy. It was a long relationship. Too long. I kept trying to fix what was already broken. And in the end, I lost parts of myself just trying to make him whole.”

Nia’s brows pulled together. “Did he—”

“He didn’t hit me,” Mira interrupted. “But sometimes words bruise deeper. And silence too.”

There was a pause, heavy, but not uncomfortable.

“I’m sorry,” Nia said simply.

Mira looked at her, surprised by the lack of pity in her tone—just warmth, and maybe a quiet rage on her behalf.

“Thanks,” Mira said. “I don’t usually tell people.”

“I’m not most people,” Nia replied, just barely smiling.

There was a moment. That kind that hangs between two people who know something just shifted. Not dramatically. But enough.

“Why do I feel like I’ve met you before?” Mira asked, half-laughing, half-serious.

Nia leaned in a little, her voice low. “Maybe we promised to find each other on this train. In another life.”

Mira smiled, a real one this time. A fragile, blooming thing.

Then, slowly, their hands found each other—not holding, not gripping, just resting near. Fingers grazing like a secret.

Not yet love.
But its soft breath.
Waiting.

Chapter 1 (continued): The Space Between Us

The train slowed.

A small station appeared in the distance—painted in faded yellows and blues, with lazy dogs sleeping under iron benches. A man walked by their window with a basket of oranges, calling out in a sing-song rhythm.

But Mira and Nia didn’t move.

Not even a blink.

“I don’t want to get off,” Mira whispered. “Not yet.”

Nia’s voice was barely above a breath. “Good. Me neither.”

Silence again. But a kind of silence that spoke louder than anything.

Then Nia looked down at their almost-touching hands and asked gently, “Do you always keep your guard this high?”

Mira smiled, but it was the kind that held sadness too. “Only when I’ve been broken open and stitched up too quickly.”

Nia nodded like she understood. “What if I didn’t want to climb over your guard? Just… sit beside it?”

Mira looked at her, really looked—into her eyes, the shape of her jaw, the way her lashes curled at the ends, naturally, like they were kissed by rain. She hadn’t realized she was staring until Nia gave a soft, amused hum.

“Sorry,” Mira mumbled, looking down, embarrassed.

“Don’t be,” Nia said. “I like the way you look when you’re curious.”

The train hissed and halted. A flurry of passengers moved about—vendors shouting, children crying, people saying rushed goodbyes. A man played a shehnai near the edge of the platform, a tune so haunting it felt like a memory.

And still, they stayed in their bubble.

Nia stood up for a moment to stretch, her shirt lifting just slightly, exposing the gentle curve of her lower back. Mira quickly turned to the window, cheeks warm. She wasn’t used to this—this kind of quiet pull that had no name yet, but hummed in her chest like something ancient and wild.

When Nia sat back down, she caught Mira’s gaze again, knowingly.

“You okay?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” Mira replied honestly. “You?”

“Not sure. But this feels like something, doesn’t it?”

Mira didn’t answer, because if she did, the walls might crack a little more. And she wasn’t ready—not yet—for the kind of flood she felt rising.

Instead, she said, “What’s something you’ve never told anyone?”

Nia raised an eyebrow. “You first.”

Mira took a deep breath. “I used to cry in the shower. Almost every day. So no one would hear me. I’d turn the tap to its highest pressure just to drown myself in the sound.”

Nia didn’t flinch. She just nodded, once, with an honesty that made Mira’s throat tighten.

“I used to dance on rooftops when no one was home,” Nia said. “Like, really dance. Wild, barefoot, spinning until the world blurred. Because I didn’t know how else to feel alive.”

Mira blinked. “That’s beautiful.”

“You’re beautiful,” Nia said softly, without even thinking.

Mira’s breath caught. Not because of the words—but because they didn’t feel performative or sudden. Just… natural. Like the sound of the wheels under them. Like breath itself.

She didn’t say anything back. Just smiled. Small. Shy. But radiant.

Outside, the station slowly passed behind them, dissolving into trees and golden dusk.

Inside, they leaned just a little closer. Their fingers finally interlaced—not tightly, but enough. Enough to say:

I see you. I don’t know what this is yet. But I’m here.

Chapter 1 (continued): The Quiet Between Us

The sun had dipped low enough that shadows stretched longer across the train floor. That hour just before night, when everything looked dipped in gold—Mira always used to love it. But today, it felt different. Warmer. Like it had its own heartbeat.

The train lights blinked on with a faint hum, casting a pale glow over their seats. Nia had turned slightly toward Mira now, her knees brushing against hers in the cramped space. Neither of them moved away.

“So…” Nia murmured, tracing invisible patterns on the edge of her seat, “if we weren’t strangers, what do you think we’d be?”

Mira blinked slowly, processing the weight of the question. She turned her head slightly, meeting those steady eyes again. “I don’t know. But it feels like I’ve known you before. Maybe in some other lifetime.”

Nia’s lips quirked up. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Mira didn’t usually talk like this. She wasn’t poetic or dreamy. She had learned to be hard, to protect herself. But Nia wasn’t pushing—just opening.

And maybe Mira… maybe she was opening too.

The train shook slightly as it passed over a bridge, the sound of water rushing beneath them. A cool breeze slipped in through the slightly cracked window. Mira hugged her shawl closer.

Without thinking, Nia reached into her bag and pulled out a soft scarf.

“Here. You look cold.”

Mira hesitated, but took it. Their fingers brushed.

It was only a moment. Barely a second. But Mira felt it in her stomach like a drop of something warm. Something… strange.

Nia leaned back, gazing at the darkening window. “You know what scares me most?”

“What?” Mira asked, still holding the scarf like it was precious.

“Being seen. Like, truly seen. And loved anyway.”

Mira exhaled. “That’s… yeah. That’s terrifying.”

“But you,” Nia whispered, turning her head slightly again. “You seem like the kind who sees right through people.”

“Sometimes I wish I didn’t,” Mira confessed.

Nia smiled. “But you do. I think you saw me from the second I sat down.”

Mira’s heart thudded.

“I did,” she admitted. “I just didn’t know what I was seeing yet.”

The train rattled on. Lights outside became fewer, the world now dipped in indigo and whispers. Inside their compartment, it felt like a different world. Quiet. Still. Wrapped in invisible threads of something neither of them wanted to name too soon.

Nia shifted closer, her shoulder now brushing against Mira’s. “You smell like books,” she said, playfully.

Mira laughed softly, surprised. “That’s the weirdest compliment I’ve ever received.”

“It’s a good thing,” Nia said. “Like home. Like someone who carries stories.”

Mira looked down at their knees, barely touching. “Maybe I’m waiting for someone to write one with.”

Nia didn’t answer immediately. But her silence wasn’t empty.

She reached down, slowly, and brushed her pinky finger against Mira’s.

Just a touch.

No words.

And Mira—Mira didn’t move away.

The train was now moving slower, as if even it didn’t want to disturb the mood inside the compartment. Somewhere in the background, a vendor passed by, calling out softly, “Dinner packets, veg-non veg!”

They hadn’t realized how late it had gotten.

Nia stretched her arms above her head, her stomach grumbling just loud enough to make them both laugh.

“I think my stomach is officially protesting,” she said with a smirk.

Mira chuckled. “Want to grab something?”

“Only if we share.”

“Dutch?” Mira raised an eyebrow.

“Half-half,” Nia nodded. “Dutch with a dash of fate.”

Mira rolled her eyes playfully. “That makes no sense.”

“Exactly.”

They ended up buying two warm veg packets from the station vendor, passing a bottle of water back and forth as they quietly unwrapped their meals.

They ate cross-legged, knees brushing, stealing bites off each other’s foil trays without asking. Mira noticed the way Nia ate—the tiniest bites, like she wanted the taste to last longer. She smiled at the sight.

“What?” Nia asked, catching her gaze mid-chew.

“Nothing,” Mira said, swallowing. “Just… you eat like the world might end tonight.”

Nia grinned. “Doesn’t it feel a little like that sometimes?”

A pause. Their eyes met again. It did. It really did.

After dinner, they cleaned up and tucked the wrappers away. The lights inside the compartment had dimmed even more, casting golden shadows across their faces.

Nia yawned, curling her knees up under her. “I never sleep on trains.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. Vulnerable, I guess.”

Mira nodded, resting her head back against the seat. “I get that.”

Nia looked over at her. Then, after a long moment, she slowly slid closer—her head gently pressing against Mira’s shoulder. Just like that.

Mira tensed for a second. Then relaxed.

“You okay?” Nia murmured.

“Yeah,” Mira whispered. “Are you?”

Nia didn’t answer with words—only a soft hum, like a lullaby. Her breath began to slow. Her body leaned in heavier, trusting Mira’s shoulder to hold her weight.

Mira sat still, heart beating like a soft drum against her ribs. She looked down at the girl sleeping on her, and for the first time in years, she didn’t feel alone in the dark.

She adjusted her scarf around both of them. And slowly—like dawn creeping in—Mira let her head rest against Nia’s, and closed her eyes.

Not because she was tired.

But because for the first time in a long while, she felt safe enough to dream.

The train rocked gently beneath them, like a lullaby swaying through distant hills. Outside the window, darkness flowed past like a quiet river, moonlight glinting faintly on the glass. Most of the world was asleep—but not Mira.

She hadn’t moved an inch. Nia’s head was still on her shoulder, warm and real. Her breaths came slow and steady, her fingers loosely curled around Mira’s scarf, as if she had done it unconsciously.

Mira’s eyes were open. Her mind was not.

She had drifted halfway between sleep and something deeper—a state where the past and the present blurred, where memories murmured like ghosts in an empty room.

And in that in-between, a dream came. Not hers. Nia’s.

Mira didn’t know how she knew that. But she did.

In the stillness, she heard a whisper. Not aloud, not in the carriage—but in the invisible space between them.

“Don’t leave me this time.”

The words hit Mira’s chest like a wave of cold wind. Nia shifted in her sleep, the softest furrow on her brow. Her lips moved, but no words came now.

Mira reached down, almost without thinking, and gently touched Nia’s fingers. A brush. A silent grounding. Something wordless, that said, I’m here.

Nia stirred. She didn’t wake, not fully—but her fingers twitched, then tightened around Mira’s scarf, like a secret clinging to the edge of dawn.

Then—quietly, in a whisper so faint it could’ve been a sigh or a soul:

“You smell like petrichor.”

Mira blinked. “Nia?”

But Nia didn’t respond. She was still half-asleep, half-lost. Mira smiled softly, her throat tightening.

“That’s the strangest compliment I’ve ever received,” she whispered.

Another pause. A breath. Then Nia murmured, barely audible, “It means I think you feel like rain… after drought.”

Silence. Mira didn’t know what to say. She just sat there, holding this girl and her secrets in the night.

And somewhere inside her, something shifted. Something fragile but blooming. A sprout of connection pushing through old soil.

Not love. Not yet.

But something that could one day become it.

The shadows of the night stretched long and thin inside the train carriage. Outside, the horizon was still sleeping, blanketed in indigo and muted stars. Only the faint hum of the engine and the occasional creak of metal filled the silence.

Mira hadn’t slept.

She had leaned back, letting Nia rest peacefully against her shoulder, but her own mind was far from quiet. She watched the moon travel across the windowpane, casting soft silver outlines over Nia’s face. There was something so tender in the way she slept—as if sleep itself was a delicate act of trust.

Mira didn’t dare move.

She didn’t want to wake her, didn’t want to lose this quiet moment where everything felt suspended between then and now.

But her chest ached. A gentle, strange ache. The kind that comes when you don’t realize how much you’ve longed to feel something again. To feel safe. To feel seen. And now—this girl, this stranger, was curled up against her like they had known each other across lifetimes.

A sigh slipped out. Mira hadn’t meant to make a sound.

Nia stirred.

Her eyelids fluttered open, a soft daze in her gaze as she looked up at Mira. “Did I… fall asleep on you?”

“You did,” Mira replied, her voice low. “And you drooled. Just a little.”

Nia gasped softly, sitting up in embarrassment, wiping her mouth. “Oh my god—no I didn’t.”

“You totally did.”

A beat passed.

Then both of them laughed. Not loud. Not wild. Just… easy. Free. It echoed softly through the compartment like the first light of dawn.

And then, as if on cue, the morning began.

Outside the window, a shy pink hue began to slip across the sky. The fields passed by in a blur, drowsy villages awakening slowly under golden light. The world felt new. Different. And so did they.

Mira stretched, her bones stiff from staying still all night. Nia looked at her, eyes still sleepy, but softer now.

“Thanks,” she said quietly.

“For what?”

“For being… that place I could lean on. Even if just for one night.”

Mira’s gaze held hers. She didn’t say “you’re welcome.” She didn’t need to. She simply nodded. And for a moment, the sunlight caught in her hair, and Nia smiled in a way that Mira would remember.

The kind of smile that makes you wonder if this—this exact meeting—was meant to happen.

They both stood, gathering their things. Not much was said. Just gentle gestures, shared glances, little pieces of silence that meant more than words.

As the train slowed down at their station, Mira felt something unfamiliar rise in her chest.

A question.

A hesitation.

An invitation not yet spoken.

But before anything could be said, Nia turned to her, holding her gaze. “Hey,” she said softly. “Can I see you again?”

Mira smiled, sunlight pouring through the window onto her face. “I was hoping you’d ask.”

The train hissed, gears groaning gently beneath their feet as it slowed to a stop. The world outside had fully awakened now—vendors setting up stalls, early birds shuffling about, and the subtle smell of chai wafting in from the open doors.

Inside, it was harder to move.

Not physically—just emotionally.

Mira’s fingers tightened slightly around the handle of her duffel bag. Her heart, which had been so guarded just yesterday, now felt oddly exposed. There was something raw about parting when you hadn’t even planned on arriving into someone else’s space.

Nia stood beside her, her backpack loosely slung over one shoulder. She was biting the corner of her lip again—that same nervous tick Mira had noticed the night before. It made her smile without realizing it.

They both stood at the edge of their compartment, neither making the first move to get off.

“Guess this is it,” Nia finally said, her voice quieter than it had been all morning.

“Yeah.” Mira’s reply was barely a whisper. “This is it.”

But both of them just… stayed there.

The crowd pushed past them, voices rising, footsteps echoing against metal, bags dragging along the floor. But in their little bubble, time moved like honey. Thick, golden, and slow.

Mira turned to her, her eyes searching. “You know what’s weird?” she asked softly.

Nia tilted her head. “What?”

“It feels like I’ve known you longer than just… a night.”

Nia exhaled a small laugh, brushing her fingers through her hair. “That’s not weird. I was thinking the same. Maybe we’re just two past lives bumping into each other again. This time… on a train.”

Mira looked down, heart thudding with something she couldn’t name yet. “Maybe.”

There was a silence then. A warm one. The kind that holds a hundred unsaid things.

Then Mira added, “I don’t usually open up to strangers.”

“I don’t either,” Nia said. “But you didn’t feel like a stranger.”

Something in that sentence wrapped around Mira’s heart like soft wool. She wanted to say more—so much more. But the train door clanked open wider, the whistle blew again, and the conductor was ushering them off with hurried gestures.

It was time.

They stepped down together, feet landing on the platform side by side.

Still… not quite ready to walk away.

Nia shifted her bag, looking at Mira like she was memorizing her. “If I hadn’t taken this train…”

“You were meant to,” Mira replied quickly, her voice catching just a bit. “You were meant to take this train. I… needed to meet you.”

Nia smiled then—a little tremble at the corners of her lips. “Then I’m glad I missed my usual one.”

Mira nodded, her eyes glistening slightly. Not tears. Not yet. But something that lived just on the edge of emotion.

And then, as the station began to hum louder, people brushing by with no idea of the quiet storm happening between two girls in the middle of it all—Mira reached out.

Just gently.

Their fingers touched.

Not a hold. Not a grasp.

Just a brush of skin. Soft. A whisper of “maybe.”

“I’ll find you,” Nia said, almost like a vow.

“I’ll let you,” Mira replied, a ghost of a smile touching her lips.

And slowly, with one last glance—a glance heavy with something unspoken—they walked away in opposite directions.

Each turning back just once.

And then forward again.

Carrying a memory that didn’t feel like the end at all.

Only the beginning.