Ravi boarded the 6:15 PM local, as he had every evening for the past eleven years. The train's metallic groan and the sharp whistle no longer stirred anything in him. Life was a cycle—home, work, debt, repeat. His mind swirled with unpaid rent, his daughter’s pending school fees, and the ever-growing stack of electricity bills on the table near the leaking window.
Unusually, the seat beside him was empty. Ravi didn’t remember the last time he had a whole berth to himself in this suffocating city.
He loosened his collar and stared blankly outside the window. His eyelids grew heavy with the weight of fatigue and thoughts. Maybe it was when he was counting the days left to pay the rent, or when he imagined his landlord banging the door again, that sleep took him quietly.
He woke with a jolt when the train screeched to a halt at the third station. For a moment, disoriented, he blinked away sleep and checked his watch. Only fifteen minutes had passed.
A young man, around twenty-five or twenty-seven, slipped into the seat beside him. He wore a simple t-shirt, jeans, and had a leather bag slung over his shoulder. His face carried something Ravi hadn’t seen in a while—hope. The boy smiled at him, and to his own surprise, Ravi smiled back.
Usually, Ravi avoided conversations on trains. He had grown tired of small talk and shallow exchanges. But something was different today. Maybe it was the emptiness beside him that had been filled with young energy, or maybe it was the lingering words of his daughter that morning: “Papa, when will you smile again?”
“Where are you headed?” Ravi found himself asking.
The boy turned with a grin. “To meet someone... my girlfriend. After almost six months.”
Ravi raised an eyebrow, a half-smile appearing. “Long-distance?”
“Not really,” the boy said, chuckling. “Life got in the way. Jobs, misunderstandings... you know how it is.”
Ravi nodded slowly. “Yes. Life always finds a way to come in between.”
They talked. About love. Marriage. Whether it was better to marry early or wait. The boy believed love was worth any wait. Ravi couldn’t argue—he had forgotten what love felt like. It had long been replaced with responsibilities and routine.
“Do you think love stays after marriage?” the boy asked.
Ravi thought for a moment. “It does… if you water it. But people forget to.”
The boy laughed. “I hope I don’t forget.”
Soon, the boy stood up. “I’ll go stand by the door. Need some air.”
Ravi nodded. The breeze was gentle tonight. He watched the boy move toward the door, his back straight, his head slightly tilted, smiling at the wind.
A minute passed. Then two.
Ravi stretched and accidentally brushed the boy’s phone on the seat. It lit up. A girl’s face smiled from the wallpaper—big eyes, dimples, and a traditional bindi. Probably his girlfriend.
He shouldn’t have, but something made him curious. Maybe it was the warmth of their talk. Maybe it was his own need to remember what emotions looked like.
He swiped the screen.
No password.
Photos opened. The couple laughing in a park. A selfie on a rainy street. Her face, always smiling.
He kept swiping.
Then, suddenly, a photo stopped him.
It wasn’t a selfie.
It was a newspaper clipping. He tapped to enlarge it.
"Young woman dies after falling from moving train. Police suspect accident."
Ravi’s throat went dry. He fumbled for his glasses and zoomed in on the image.
His hands began to sweat. His heart pounded. The clipping looked a few weeks old.
He turned quickly toward the train door.
The boy was gone.
Ravi stood up, peered around. Nothing. The aisle was empty.
He walked briskly to the door, scanning left and right. No one stood there. No trace of the young man who had just been talking about meeting his girlfriend.
A chill ran down Ravi’s spine.
"He said he was going to meet her..." he whispered to himself.
Maybe he meant something else.
Maybe she was waiting, just not here.
Ravi sat back down, heart still racing. The phone was still in his hand. He placed it on the seat gently, almost respectfully, as if afraid to offend a memory.
The train continued its journey.
