In the midst of the chaos, I saw him before he noticed me.
I noticed how he moved,
how he spoke,
how he carried his thoughts like it was something fragile he was afraid to drop.
I noticed everything, silently, the way you do when you already know a moment will pass too quickly.
The train station was too loud that night. Metal screeching against metal, announcements echoing overhead, footsteps rushing past like no one wanted to stay longer than necessary. And I stood near the platforms, I slung my bag to my shoulder, exhaustion settling into my bones after a long and tiring day on campus. I looked around and there he was, I saw him—standing a few distance to me, half-kit by fluorescent lights and I noticed that he was scrolling to his phone like the world hadn't just tilted on its axis.
He moves his hand slowly. And suddenly, my phone buzzed. To my shock, he had followed me on Instagram. But when I looked up, he was gone.
Déjà vu: absurdly familiar, washed over me.
I looked around, hoping he’d reappear. And he did. Closer this time, too close to approach.
Maybe the universe has a habit of placing us in the same spaces at inconvenient times. Seminar halls. University hallways. Academic buildings where the air smells like old paper and ambition. And now, at a train station at night—both of us clearly trying to get home, both of us clearly lingering for reasons we wouldn't admit.
I still remember the first time I noticed him.
It was late evening, the campus dim and quiet except for the soft glow of lampposts lining the walkways. Students were scattered across benches, some reviewing notes, others waiting for rides that never seemed to come. I saw him then—sitting on the steps of one building, notebook open, completely absorbed.
That night, I walked past him three times.
Each time, I told myself I’d stop.
Each time, I didn’t.
There was always something in the way I couldn't explain. A friend calling my name. A deadline pressing at the back of my head. A fear disguised as patience. By the time I finally turned around. Holy cow, he was gone, and the atmosphere felt emptier for it.
Now he’s here again, leaning against one of the station pillars, headphones hanging loosely around his neck, jacket half-zipped like he couldn’t decide if he was cold or just restless. I know that posture. I know the way he taps his foot when he’s waiting for something—even if he doesn’t know what yet.
My chest tightens. My pulse quickens. And for the first time since that night on campus, I let myself think: maybe we can try again.
Our eyes meet. Just briefly. But it’s enough.
Those glances made my heart beat to stop—it looked like it carries everything we never talk to, the times we passed each other in corridors, the nights we stayed late for different reasons, the words that stayed lodged in our throats. It feels like I'm standing at the edge of something fragile, something that I could disappear if I ever blink too hard..
I look away like I always do. Afraid of what might happen next.
I tell myself to focus on the practical things. The schedule. The platform number. The fact that it’s already late and I'm tired and this shouldn't matter as much as it does. But every subtle movement he makes pulls my attention back. The way he adjusts his bag. The way his fingers absentmindedly trace the edge of his phone. I remember things I shouldn’t remember—how he furrows his brow when he’s thinking, how he listens like the world deserves his full attention.
On campus, we crossed paths more times than I could count.
And yes—sometimes, competition stood between us.
There were moments when our names appeared on the same lists, our presentations scheduled back-to-back, our ideas compared in quiet murmurs we pretended not to hear. Different circles. Different strengths. The kind of rivalry no one openly admits to, but everyone feels. I watched him from across rooms, admired the way he spoke with certainty, the way people leaned in when it was his turn. And I wondered—more than once—if he ever noticed me the same way.
But competition was never the real distance. Timing was.
Nights blurred together. Lampposts flickered. Buildings emptied. We stayed late for our own reasons—deadlines, responsibilities, the pressure to become something more. Sometimes I’d see him across the quad, walking in the opposite direction, close enough to recognize, too far to stop. Always moving. Always missing each other by minutes.
The train pulls into the station with a roar, wind rushing past us, scattering loose strands of hair across my face. For a moment, everything is noise and motion. When it settles, he’s closer than before.
Too close to ignore.
Our shoulders brush as the crowd shifts. The contact is brief, accidental, but it sends a jolt straight through me. I freeze, heart pounding, waiting for him to step back. He doesn’t. Instead, he glances down at me, curiosity softening his expression.
We stand there, suspended between arrivals and departures.
I want to say something. Anything. Do you remember me? Do you feel this too? But the words hesitate, trembling behind my teeth. I’ve waited too long before. I won’t let the moment slip again.
“Long day?” he asks quietly.
I nod, a small laugh escaping before I can stop it. “You have no idea.”
Something eases between us. A shared understanding. The kind that doesn’t need explanation.
The train doors open. People move. But neither of us steps forward right away.
We talk—slowly, carefully—about late nights, about unfinished thoughts, about how exhausting it is to always be chasing something just out of reach. He mentions staying late, the quiet of empty buildings, the strange comfort of being there when everyone else has gone home. I realize we’ve been standing in the same places, breathing the same air, all this time.
The train won’t wait forever.
As we step inside, our hands brush again. This time, neither of us pulls away.
I take a breath, heart racing. “Can we… maybe not let it end like last time?”
He looks at me fully now. Really look at me. And in his eyes, I see it—the same hesitation, the same hope, the same question I’ve been carrying since that night on campus.
He smiles, soft and certain. “Yeah,” he says. “I was hoping you’d ask.”
The train begins to move.
The lights outside blur. The station dissolves into streaks of gold and shadow. His shoulder is warm against mine, solid, real. I let myself lean just slightly closer, the rhythm of the tracks syncing with my heartbeat.
We decided to ride together tomorrow, to catch the same train. Small laughter. Shared anticipation.
The next day we met on the bench inside of campus. And we decided to ride a tricycle to the station. This should have been simple. Just a short, familiar route. But a swerve, a misjudged turn, a flash of headlights—and everything went wrong. Metal, concrete, pain.
Darkness consumes me.
And the first thing I feel is pain.
Not sharp, not screaming—just everywhere. A dull, heavy ache that presses into my chest, my head, my limbs, like my body is reminding me it’s still here. The second thing I noticed is the sound. Not the rhythm of train tracks. Not music in my ears.
Beeping.
Slow. Mechanical. Unforgiving.
My eyes flutter open to blinding white light. The ceiling above me is unfamiliar—too clean, too still. Tubes trail from my arm. A monitor blinks steadily beside the bed. The smell hits me next: antiseptic, metal, something sterile that doesn’t belong to dreams.
Hospital.
Memory rushes back all at once, violent and merciless.
The tricycle ride.
The night air.
The laughter, brief and careless, as the driver swerved too close to the curb.
The headlights.
The sound of impact—metal, flesh, fear colliding in a single moment that never finished echoing.
I turn my head instinctively.
His bed is beside mine.
Empty.
Panic surges, my heart rate spiking enough for the monitor to protest. I try to move, but pain pins me down. My throat tightens.
“No,” I whisper, voice hoarse. “No—he was here.”
A nurse notices the change, footsteps quickening. Someone says my name softly, grounding, practiced. But I’m already slipping backward into memory.
I remember being on the pavement, breath ragged, vision swimming. I remember seeing him lying too still beside me, blood dark against the road. I remember gripping his hand, begging him to stay awake, telling him help was coming even when I wasn’t sure.
I remember the ambulance doors slamming shut.
The flashing lights.
The way his fingers loosened around mine.
And then—
The operating room.
I wasn’t supposed to see it, but I did. From the gurney, from the half-conscious blur between pain and terror, I saw them rush him in beside me. Doctors shouting times. Nurses moving fast. Hands pressing, lifting, trying.
Trying.
I survived.
He didn’t.
The nurse speaks gently now, explaining what I already know from the way the room feels too quiet, too final. From the absence beside me that screams louder than any alarm.
I nod once. That’s all I can manage.
Hours pass—or maybe minutes. Time doesn’t work right anymore. Eventually, they let me see him.
He looks peaceful in a way that hurts. Like he’s just resting. Like if I sit long enough, he might open his eyes and complain about the lights, about hospitals, about how we were supposed to catch a train.
I pull a chair close, careful of the wires attached to me. My hand finds his—cold now, unfamiliar. I lace our fingers together anyway.
“I’m here,” I whisper, voice breaking: “I didn’t leave.”
My chest tightens as the memory crashes in—the train station, the promise, the way he smiled when I asked if we could try again.
We were supposed to try.
Tears slip down quietly. I don’t sob. I don’t scream. I just cry the way you do when the world has already taken everything loud from you.
“I’m sorry,” I murmured. “I should’ve said more. I should’ve been braver sooner.”
Silence answers me.
My voice drops to something almost like a prayer.
“Can we try again… next life? Please?”
He doesn’t answer.
But for a moment—just a moment—I swear I feel something. Not movement. Not warmth.
Just the echo of a promise that never got the chance to live.
And this time—
I don’t wake up from it.
I live with it.
