Reflections In Transit: A Literary Fiction about Breakup Realizations during a Train Ride

Nine days to go.

Nine days until our two-year anniversary — and he broke up with me. The words kept replaying as I stepped onto the subway at 40th Street, the cold December wind still biting at my face. My chest felt like someone had tied a burning iron weight to my heart. Every bump of the EL sent that weight swinging through my body like a wrecking ball. I felt sick. My heart was just shattered glass grinding around in my ribcage.

I’d been living in this city for five months, totally on my own, barely any friends — really, just him. Adjusting was hard enough with long work hours and no support, and now I’d managed to lose the one person I relied on. I loved him, truly. But for seven months I’d treated him like background noise, too wrapped up in my own chaos to even notice how much he was giving. If I were him… I probably would’ve left too. That guilt mixed with heartbreak until everything inside me was just a tangled, painful knot.

I tried to remember the last things he said to me. My brain felt like a dark room where someone had flipped the breaker. Nothing made sense. I just felt hollow — the same kind of hollow that moved in when my dad died, the kind that made me wonder if I’d ever be enough for anyone. Could I even handle a relationship while fighting my own mind every day?

He said he loved me three weeks ago.

Three weeks.

Maybe it was never real. Maybe he just got tired of waiting for me to get better.

I kept telling myself I was some “struggling writer, starving artist,” as if that gave me a pass for the drinking, the drama, the spirals. But really, I’d become everything I swore I wouldn’t: a self-loathing addict pushing people out faster than I could pull myself together. Anyone who hadn’t left on their own, I shoved away with my own mess.

My thoughts scattered again — where was I even going? What train was I on? What was the plan? I didn’t recognize myself anymore. The girl I used to be felt long gone. Maybe she died when my dad did.

I thought about praying for the first time in ages… but no. God and I? We weren’t on speaking terms. If there was a God, he felt more like some lightning-hurling maniac aiming straight at me.

It was my first night off from the bowling alley all week and, of course, I was sober. Miserably sober. I wanted a drink so badly my hands shook. Maybe that was why he left. Maybe he finally saw me how I saw me: an alcoholic with a head full of poison.

Then it hit me where I was going — or rather, where I thought I needed to go.

I needed to fix this. Fix us. Fix me.

I swore I could change. But his voice kept echoing in my mind:

“Fine, come. But you won’t change. I know you. You’ll stay stuck in your misery and drag everyone else down with you. You won’t change my mind.”

That cut deeper than anything he’d ever said.

Part of me burned with anger — he promised he’d never give up on me. And yet… how could I blame him? His honesty hurt more than bullets.

But in that hurt, something clicked.

I knew what I needed to do.

Not for him — at least not just for him — but for me.

I would get better.

I would go back to school.

I would clean myself up.

I would be the friend, partner, daughter, sister I’d failed at being.

I would fight every self-destructive thought until it shut up for good.

I would make my father proud — and maybe, for once, make myself proud too. The other option? Staying stuck forever. Rotting in the same darkness I’d been sinking into for years. That wasn’t an option anymore.

The train screeched to a stop at 69th Street. Everyone pushed past me to get off. I moved on autopilot, wiping smeared makeup while fixing my lopsided purple mohawk. Just another broken punk girl in a crowd of strangers.

The cold air outside hit my lungs and I whispered into it, “Dad… if you can hear me, please. I need help. I don’t want to die alone.”

As I walked toward the bus, a man in a suit — the kind my dad loved wearing — passed me, speaking loudly into his phone. And right as he stepped beside me, I heard:

“You’re not alone in this. Of course I’ll help you. I’ll do anything I can. I love you.”

I froze.

Was that… the sign I asked for?

The End?