Between Two Stations

“Not Even a Goodbye”

Second coach. Left window seat.

The fan above had a broken rhythm. Four full turns, one half. Four again. It wasn’t loud, but once I heard it, I couldn’t unhear it.

I kept my bag on my lap. Phone in hand, screen off. Just held it.

She slid in beside me. Her dupatta brushed against my arm. Her bag thudded against my knee.

“Sorry,” she said, barely audible.

Not like last week. Not like usual.

I nodded. Didn’t look.

The light above us flickered once. Settled. The kind of flicker you don’t register unless you’re already uneasy.

She pulled out a Dairy Milk. Broke it in half. No rustling, just that soft tear. Held it out.

“Want?”

I took it. Not because I wanted it. Because I didn’t know how to refuse things from her without making them mean something.

We passed two stations in silence. Her phone lit up once. She didn’t unlock it.

Then she said, “So… I’ll be shifting next Friday. Papers are done. Tickets booked.”

Her voice was steady. Practised. Like she’d said it to herself before saying it to me.

I nodded. Again.

She laughed. That laugh that always came just before she expected silence.

“You’ll be fine without me, right?”

I stared out. The tracks blurred past, metallic and fast.

“You talk like you're dying,” I said, not turning.

“Feels like it,” she replied.

No sarcasm. Just soft truth.

The fan kept ticking above us. Like it was measuring our silences.

I thought of saying it.

Of saying, “You’re the only part of my week that doesn’t feel borrowed.”

Of asking her to stay. Or at least… to wait.

But I didn’t.

Because I knew. The moment I say it, she’d have to choose.

And if she chose to stay, it would be because of me.

And if she left anyway—

I wasn’t brave enough for either ending.

Her stop came.

She stood up. Slung her bag over one shoulder.

Looked at me with that almost-smile. Not polite. Not warm. Just… suspended.

“I’ll text when I reach,” she said.

“Okay.”

She waited.

I felt it.

One more second. Two.

And then she turned. Walked out. Slow. Controlled. Like someone holding back a sprint.

I didn’t get off at my station. Stayed till the last one.

The fan still ticked above me.

In my hand: the chocolate wrapper.

Still warm. Slightly crushed.

Like the words I didn’t say.

“One Last Hint”

Second coach. Left window seat.

He was already there—back straight, shoulders stiff, staring out. Not watching anything. Just avoiding looking at me.

I stepped in, sat beside him. Bag bumped his knee.

“Sorry,” I said, without thinking.

He nodded. No smile. No eye contact.

The fan above us was struggling—four full spins, one stutter. Four again.

It sounded like something trying not to fall apart.

I pulled out a Dairy Milk. Broke it in half.

“Want?”

Held it out without looking. Just like every other time.

He took it. His fingers brushed mine for half a second.

I pretended not to notice.

We passed two stations. Nothing. Just train noise and static between us.

So I said it.

“Next Friday. Shifting. Papers done. Tickets booked.”

His face stayed still.

I laughed. It came out dry. I hated it.

“You’ll be fine without me, right?”

Still no reply.

“You talk like you’re dying,” he muttered.

“Feels like it,” I said, almost too quickly.

I wanted him to look at me. Just once.

To meet my eyes and say something real.

But he kept staring out. At nothing.

We’ve always done this.

Talked in fragments. Paused between lines, hoping the other would fill the gap.

I thought maybe… just maybe… he’d say something this time.

Anything. Even “Don’t go.”

I leaned my head against the window. It was cold.

I watched our reflection—his jaw tight, my face blank.

From outside, the train probably looked like a blur.

But inside, time was crawling.

My station came.

I stood. Took longer than I needed. Fixed my dupatta. Checked my phone though there were no notifications.

Still nothing from him.

“I’ll text when I reach,” I said.

He said, “Okay.”

Just that.

I waited. A heartbeat. Two.

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

So I left.

I didn’t turn back. Couldn’t.

Outside, the wind felt heavy.

Like it knew something had ended without ever beginning.

In my bag: another Dairy Milk.

Untouched. For him.

In my chest: A sentence I couldn't say, "If you ask me to stay, I will."

But he didn't ask.

I didn't stay.