The Train We Missed Together
Sometimes, missing one train leads to finding someone forever.
By Abdie bhaiPublished 6 months ago • 3 min read
- The rain came early that afternoon, turning the platform into a mosaic of shimmering reflections. I arrived at the station late, my coat soaked and shoes splashing with every step. The display board blinked — my train had left five minutes ago. I pressed my forehead to the bench, the chill sinking into my bones.
Then she appeared. Standing under the dim lamp, hair plastered to her forehead. She held a violin case gently, like a piece of fragile hope. She glanced at me and half-smiled, as though she saw the same defeat.
She swept into the seat beside me, breathing out: “Did you miss it too?”
I nodded, unsure why my voice found its way out: “Missed it perfectly.”
She tilted her head, water dripping from the tips of her curls. “Sometimes missing the train feels more right than catching it.”
And in those words, something in me shifted.
---
Returns to silence — but the kind that hums.
She pulled her violin out of its case, hesitated, then played one slow bow: a long, sorrow-stitched note that vibrated in the air. It wasn’t practiced, only honest. A melody of rain and memory. People passed by, drawn to the sound, but neither of us moved. The world around us bookended itself, paused, waiting.
I watched raindrops race across the puddles. Watched her fingers dance on the strings. I realized I’d forgotten how to listen—to silence, to music, even to my own breath. Until then.
When the final note died, she closed her eyes and smiled faintly. “It’s been months,” she said softly. “I forgot this felt like… expressing something I still carry.”
Something flickered in me — empathy, pain, recognition of a shared ache.
“I’m Zayan,” I offered carefully.
“Hania,” she replied. “I play… when I feel lost.”
And just like that, we began talking—about music, moments, missed connections, and dreams deferred.
---
Time stretched out sweetly.
We learned the small beauties of each other’s routine. She arrived Sundays, violin in hand, under the same lamp that barely held light. Sundays weren’t allowed weekdays anymore—they were ours.
We shared coffee in a nearby cafe. I learned she had once composed lullabies for her younger sister. She learned I’d written stories filled with characters I never had the courage to feel. We pieced together fragments of ourselves while rain pattered lightly beyond the window.
One evening, snow bloomed in gentle white flakes. We missed another train, but this time intentionally. We sat on the bench under snowfall, breathing steam from hot mugs, leaning in close enough to feel each other’s warmth. She rested her head on my shoulder. I tucked strands of hair behind her ear, surprised at how natural it felt.
“Missing trains is our version of magic,” I joked.
She looked up at me. “It’s fate.”
---
Months turned into seasons.
We wrote letters kept in pockets, exchanged favorite songs, and conjured imaginary futures. She played private serenades; I began writing again—with color, with feeling, with hope.
An anniversary came—one year since we first sat under that lamp. I showed up early with something hidden behind my back. Hania appeared, cheeks rosy from the cold, eyes bright. She asked, hopeful: “Did I miss something today?”
I smiled, knelt low on the snowy platform, and opened a box where plastic stood—a ring.
“Will you keep missing trains with me… for the rest of our lives?”
Her hand flew to her mouth. Heaviness tipped toward joy. She nodded sideways tears, quietly bursting as she whispered: “Yes. Yes, I will.”
People hurried past, but for once we didn’t notice time slipping away.
---
That night, under streetlamp light and snow, I slipped the ring onto her finger. She leaned close, forehead resting against mine. Silence wrapped us.
She finally whispered: “thank you—for making me brave again.”
---
Epilogue (200 words of reflection)
Weeks later, I sat on that bench alone, typing a story — our story. The train passed, empty now. I watched tail lights fade. No fear lingered; hope seated itself deep in my chest.
Sometimes love doesn’t arrive on schedule. It arrives beside you—under a dim lamp, through raindrops, in missed moments. It arrives in unexpected pauses and shared silences.
We still miss trains. Sometimes to compose songs in the station air. Sometimes to sit under snow and breathe each other in. Those missed trains became our ritual; markers of presence, of choosing each other again.
Because what we found on that bench was more than romance. It was healing. It was faith in timing. It was a reassurance that even if life delays you, it may just be delivering something better.
We never look for trains anymore. We just hold hands under the lamp and wait—together.
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