When I Saw Her For The Last Time

I still remember the way she stood under the soft glow of the old train station lights, her coat buttoned up to her chin, a scarf wrapped around her neck like armor against the cold. It was early December, the kind where the chill settles deep into your bones. She had a soft smile on her face, but her eyes—those eyes—held a sadness I hadn’t seen before.

Her name was Aanya.

We met two years ago at a bookstore, both reaching for the same copy of The Great Gatsby. She laughed first, said something about fate, and from that moment, fate never gave us a break. Our love was quiet, gentle, like the hum of a favorite song. There were no grand gestures or fireworks—just stolen glances, late-night coffee, and shared silence that said more than words ever could.

But love, I’ve learned, doesn’t always win against life.

She had dreams—bigger than our small city, bigger than us. A scholarship in Paris. A chance to write for one of the best publishing houses in Europe. I knew from the moment she got that acceptance letter, our story had a chapter left, maybe two—but not a whole book.

We tried to pretend otherwise. She promised she’d come back. I said I’d wait. But deep down, we both knew this goodbye wasn’t just for now. It was the kind that leaves a space you don’t talk about, like a scar hidden beneath long sleeves.

That morning, I offered to drive her, but she insisted on taking the train. "I want the journey to feel real," she said. I didn’t argue. I just showed up, like always.

I arrived early and watched her from a distance for a while. Her fingers played nervously with the strap of her bag. I saw her glance at her phone, then at the platform, then at nothing at all. She was always brave on the outside, but I knew her well enough to see the storm behind her calm.

When I finally walked up, she smiled like she always did. The kind of smile that made me forget everything wrong with the world.

“You came”, she said.

“Of course I did.”

We didn’t say much. Words felt useless. Instead, we stood close, my hand holding hers, the silence stretching gently between us. A few passengers passed by, their luggage wheels clicking on the platform tiles, the sound echoing in the stillness.

“I hate this,” she whispered.

“Me too.”

“But I have to go.”

“I know.”

She looked up at me, and for a second, it felt like time paused. Her eyes shimmered—not with tears, but with everything she couldn’t say.

Then the train arrived.

People rushed around us. A conductor’s voice echoed through the speakers, announcing departure times and destinations. It all felt far away, like background noise in a scene that didn’t belong to anyone else.

She leaned in and kissed me—softly, slowly, like she was memorizing the shape of my lips.

“I love you,” she said, pulling back just enough to look into my eyes.

“I love you too.”

She stepped back, picked up her bag, and walked toward the train.

I didn’t call out. I didn’t run after her. I just watched, like you watch the last few seconds of a movie you don’t want to end.

And then, just before she stepped inside, she turned.

That moment—her standing there, backlit by the warm yellow light, the cold air turning her breath into smoke, her eyes locked on mine—is etched into my memory like a photograph I’ll never forget.

She smiled, mouthed thank you, and disappeared through the door.

The train pulled away. I stood there long after it was gone, the platform slowly emptying, the silence heavier than before.

That was the last time I saw her.

We wrote letters at first. Calls became less frequent. Time, distance, life—they’re cruel in their own quiet ways. Eventually, the silence grew too loud to ignore, and we both let go, gently, without blame.

But not a day passes that I don’t return to that moment—her final glance, the soft echo of her goodbye.

People say some loves aren’t meant to last forever. I disagree. Some loves do last forever—they just don’t stay.