Train Ride

The train ride from Kyoto to Osaka would be quiet. The lateness of the humid summer evening helped, but train rides in Japan were always imbued with a sense of hush. A handful of people shuffled their way silently onto the train, choosing their seats far away from one another, leaving ample space between the other patrons.

As the train started pulling itself along the tracks, the cadenced thump-thump of the wheels below fell into the background. The slow lull of smooth turns and directional shifts swayed the passengers as if it were a lazy boat moving along calm waters.

One girl sat in a booth-like seat near the back of the train car, covering her face as she tried to hold back her body wracking sobs. Her shoulders tense with the struggle. She was more than aware of her fellow passengers, but the rolling waves of sorrow, loss, and heartbreak prevented her from joining the mellow rhythm of the late-night ride.

She sniffled, her breath catching as she inhaled the quiet air of the train. It was a thunderous sound, barely dampened by the soft background hum of the air moving past the train. Another train passenger cleared their throat, a not-so-subtle way of indicating their dissatisfaction with the unwelcome public display of emotion. The train was supposed to be a place for relaxation and quiet; a mysterious space between here and there that lent to catching up on one's correspondence, reading a good book, or just simply existing in the in-between.

She was uncomfortably aware of herself disturbing the peace. Try as she might, her struggle to fend off the sounds of her sobs was beaten out by the depth of her sorrow. For a first love lost wreaks havoc on the heart and soul.

Snot ran down her chin and tears streaked along her cheeks. She hesitantly lifted one of her hands away from her face to wipe at the excess liquids escaping her body. The dim mechanical lights from above, the sudden cold air on her face, and the salty smell of the back of her hand struck her senses and she flinched. She turned her head towards the darkness of the window beside her to hide the now exposed side of her face. The silent passing lights of the city wouldn’t judge her as the train swiftly traveled from platform to platform.

She repeatedly hiccuped, trying to calm herself, then opened her eyes only to meet her dim reflection within the darkness of the glass. Her face was swollen from crying and she couldn’t help but chastise her pitiful self for falling so fast and hurting so deeply.

“How could you be so stupid?” She croaked out in English, her tongue rough from dehydration. Her voice was foreign in the silence of the train. She didn’t even spare a sideways glance at the people she was more than likely disturbing, her cognizance of the situation lost within her dizzying thoughts of despair. She had spent her whole day walking around the old city of Kyoto with the man whom she had confessed her love to not but a few days prior. She had stood with him on the train platform to Osaka, still foolishly awaiting his response, only to receive a simple goodbye.

She finally gave in and leaned her forehead against the hard, cool surface of the window. She let her tears flow freely down her puffy cheeks, like fresh rain droplets streaming down the curve of an umbrella. She closed her eyes tightly, cutting off her sense of sight again, trying to prevent sensory overload. Instead, she focused on her breath, beginning with the slight moisture of the air fogging up the glass only inches away from her lips. She honed in on the feeling of the rise and fall of her chest. Trying to match the calming rhythm of the wheels on the track, quieting the chaos in her mind to bring herself back to the lulling sway of the train.

After several lifts of her chest and a dozen or so beats of her newly broken heart, she began to gain back her sense of self. She wouldn’t be ok for quite some months to come. She would struggle with this same rush of out of control, heart-clenching sorrow, over and over again. She would pretend to be fine and slap a fake smile on her face whenever the memory came up amongst others. She would never be the same.

Time passed and the train started to slow, the subtle change in velocity brought her back to the present moment and she blinked the last remanence of tears from her lashes. She would be meeting a friend in Osaka soon, her pre-made plans had not changed despite the abrupt end to a love barely begun.

She sat up and used both hands to roughly wipe at her face before giving herself a couple of good slaps to both cheeks. The swift and sharp pain ripped her away from her last dredges of sorrow and back to the brown carpet-lined seat beneath her.

She gathered her small suitcase and backpack that had been hastily tossed onto the open seat beside her nearly an hour ago.

The train finally rolled to her destination and an announcement played over the speakers in the native tongue of the country she was but a visitor in. “Osaka station. Osaka station. Please use the doors on your right,” a pre-recorded mechanical voice rang out, the first sound other than her crying to grace the train car. She took a moment to prepare herself for what would be an ongoing performance of masked joy and hidden hurt.

She stood and proceeded to the exit. As the doors opened she smiled and looked for her friend. Her chest ached, the carnage of her heart was still raw and bleeding. She finally met her friend’s searching gaze and stepped onto the platform. She departed the train from Kyoto to Osaka, where there would forever be a piece of her broken heart hidden within the sterile silence of the in-between.