The Train Left Without Me

The train doors slide shut.

I blink.

It takes me a second to process what just happened. My suitcase is still on the platform. So am I. But the train—the one I was supposed to be on, the one that was going to take me away from everything familiar—is already sliding away, humming along the track like it never knew I existed.

For a heartbeat, I stand frozen. Mouth half-open. Breath caught.

It’s 6:03 p.m. on a Thursday. My departure was scheduled for 6:00 p.m. sharp. I was on time, almost. But not enough.

People brush past me on the platform. No one says anything. No one ever does in these moments. It’s like the universe hit pause for me, but everyone else is still fast-forwarding. I glance down at my suitcase. It looks as stunned as I feel.

I check my phone. Three messages from Megan:

“You sure you’re doing the right thing?”

“It’s not too late to back out.”

“Just call me if you change your mind.”

Too late, I think. And yet… not.

I had spent the past two weeks convincing myself that leaving was the brave thing to do. That starting over in a new city, 400 miles from my current mess of a life, was the reset button I needed. New job, new apartment, no more bumping into memories I wasn’t ready to let go of.

But now I’m standing still. And something about it feels… right.

I sink onto the bench behind me, my palms clammy from adrenaline or panic or both. For the first time in weeks, no one's expecting anything from me in this exact moment. I'm not on the train. I'm not back at my apartment. I'm somewhere in between, and strangely, it's peaceful.

Across the platform, a little girl holds a balloon twice the size of her head. She smiles at me, and I smile back without thinking. Her mom offers me a quick nod, and for the first time today, someone sees me.

It’s a weird thing, to miss something by seconds and realize maybe you weren’t meant to catch it at all.

I try to imagine myself sitting on that train, looking out the window, pretending I’m ready. I can see it clearly — earbuds in, blank stare, heart pounding from the sprint to the station. I would’ve played the role. But I would’ve felt like a fraud.

My phone buzzes in my hand again. Megan.

I don’t open the message. Instead, I call her.

She answers on the second ring. “Hey. You okay?”

“I missed the train,” I say quietly.

A pause. “Intentionally?”

I shrug, even though she can’t see it. “I don’t know. I just… I was there. But I didn’t get on.”

“Maybe that’s okay,” she says.

I press my fingers into my temple. “I spent two months planning this, Meg. I told everyone I was leaving.”

“You can still leave,” she replies. “But maybe not today. Maybe not like that.”

She’s right. And I hate that she’s right, because I’d already imagined the goodbye version of me walking away clean. Starting over. Being brave.

But maybe bravery isn’t always about leaving.

Maybe it's about staying and facing the parts of yourself you were trying to outrun.

I let the silence settle between us for a minute. No one’s rushing me now. The train is gone. The decision’s already made. Or maybe it's unmade.

“I think I need to go home,” I say finally.

“Okay,” Megan says. “You want company?”

I glance down at my suitcase, then back at the tracks, where the train has long since vanished. “Yeah,” I say. “Yeah, I think I do.”

She laughs softly. “On my way.”

I hang up, zip my jacket, and grab my suitcase handle. As I walk slowly out of the station, I realize something strange.

I don't feel like I failed.

I feel like I just got a second chance.