The Last Train

It took me a minute to realize that he was talking to me. A complete stranger, in this deserted subway platform. He sat at the other edge of the bench; at least two people could sit between us. He was relaying a story about when he was my age"he met his first love right in this platform, right at this very spot.

 

He kept silent when I didn’t answer. Figuring that it would be rude to ignore the attempt to converse, I bookmarked my page and closed the book I was reading. I didn’t say anything. I just turned my head to him and as soon as my book made a thud sound, he smiled and continued.

 

It wasn’t remarkable, he said. It wasn’t that type of feeling that when he saw her, he instantly felt love at first sight. No, they accidentally bumped each other while rushing through the station, he was running to the train and she just left it. When they bumped each other, her papers flew all over the place and his films rolled out of his bag. While he was focusing on the pain, he saw her picking up all the papers once he opened his eyes.

 

She was weird, he told me and I agreed, stifling a chuckle. It was one of the most painful impacts anyone has ever heard (the people in the station looked at them with their mouths agape and breaths hitched) and all she was doing was picking up the pieces of papers that fell. It was as if she felt no pain at all. When he was finally able to realize what was going on, he picked up his films and it just so happens that"as cliché as it was, he admitted"his film rolled on top of her final paper. They both reached out to get their things when their fingers touched.

 

Still, there was no attraction at the first touch. He looked at her in sincere awe and she looked at him with an eyebrow raised as if she was solving a very difficult puzzle. They got what they needed and went their separate ways.

 

Gradually, he began noticing her. Her long hair was always in a messy bun on Mondays and Fridays. She keeps it plain on Tuesdays. Sometimes it’s in a ponytail on Thursdays and Wednesdays but on Saturdays, it was braided to her left side, falling neatly past her shoulders. She always carried the same bag, the same amount of paper, wearing the same torn, too-big-for-her jacket and too-big-for-her glasses that starts slipping because she’s constantly looking down. Whenever he passes by her, her thumb is between her teeth"mumbling and biting at the same time.

 

He stops in front of her four months later when he sees her without papers, huddling in a corner post with her legs tight to her chest and her arms wrapped around it. Her jacket over her head and if he wasn’t watching her, he wouldn’t have ever known. He sits down beside her and he hears a gulp and a gasp for air. He pushes the jacket back and sees that her hair was messily cut, one side longer than the other. Her face was tear-streaked, her glasses was gone.

 

He loved her, he confessed. That was the moment when he had realized he was in love with this crazy-looking girl he was observing for the past four months because she stood out so much. At that moment, with her face filled with tears and her hair messy and uneven, her jacket too big for her and torn and patched. He kissed her right there.

 

I snapped back to reality when he paused and someone coughed quietly at the corner of the station. I blinked rapidly and looked at where I was. I scooted over without realizing it. I looked up at him and he stared back with a crooked and wrinkled smile. I returned it with my own crooked one.

 

She died the next day, he discovered. She was standing at the edge of the platform, and witnesses said that she seemed like she was contemplating if she would jump. She constantly looked around the station, too, as if waiting for someone to arrive. But things happened too ugly, too fast. Some say it was an accident and she was just in the way. Most said that there was a suspicious man who they thought reached out at first to help her, but grabbed the back of her collar and threw her into the railings.

 

It was instant. It was tragic.

 

A single tear fell from his tired eyes. I handed him my kerchief. He accepted with a polite and quiet thank you. He smiled at me sadly.

 

I reminded him of her, he whispered. The way my nose was buried in my books, different every two weeks, a jacket that was a size or two bigger than me. My glasses slipping off my nose and my hair, short and messy.

 

It’s been too long, he declared. I sat beside him, watching him"speechless. I could tell he was too tired and I didn’t have the heart to argue. I wanted to hold his hand, tell him that everything’s going to be fine. After all these years, it will be fine now. He pecks me on my forehead like he would a granddaughter and his thumb wipes away the tears that I never knew began to fall. All the feelings I’ve been keeping began to overflow. It was uncharacteristic of me, but after everything he’s been through, he deserves someone to sympathize with him, even from a complete stranger.

 

I’m a good person, he informed me, hugging me close before letting go. I didn’t want to"it was painful, like losing your own grandfather. It hurts, but as he slowly stood up and walked away, I couldn’t call out to him. He was wobbling, very unsteady with his feet.

 

The announcement came from the intercom that the last train was coming. I hiccuped, trying to find my voice to yell out to him to stop, that this isn’t how he should meet her. But he fell onto his knees right at the edge of the platform. I can see him clutching his chest, but my eyes were blurry from the tears. I closed my eyes shut because the image of him falling sideways was too much.

 

The last thing I heard during that day was a sound of the last train honking.

 

Author's Note

I have a project called Project 365 where I write one-shots of at least 500 words every day. This story is DAY 11.

http://thoserabidbunnies.blogspot.com/search/label/Project%20365 for more info/one-shots :)