After she boarded the train,
I did not leave the station immediately.
I stood there,
behind the yellow line,
even after people around me had moved on.
The platform slowly emptied.
Announcements echoed once,
then stopped.
The air smelled faintly of metal
and something warm—
coffee from a nearby stall.
I didn't buy any.
I didn't feel like holding something
that would cool down in my hands.
Eventually,
I walked out of the station.
The automatic doors closed behind me
with a soft sound.
Outside,
the city continued as if nothing had happened.
People crossed roads.
Buses stopped and left.
Lights changed colors.
I stood still for a moment,
letting everyone pass.
That night,
sleep did not come easily.
I lay on my bed
listening to the distant sound of traffic.
The room felt too quiet.
Not empty—
quiet.
There was a difference.
I reached for my notebook again.
The same one
I had been writing in since winter.
Its pages were no longer blank.
They were filled with dates,
observations,
unfinished thoughts.
I turned to a random page.
A sentence stared back at me.
Today, the sky looked like it wanted to say something,
but didn't.
I didn't remember writing it.
Still, it felt familiar.
I began writing again.
Not about the meeting.
Not about the station.
But about smaller things.
About how the kettle took longer to boil now.
About how my hands had started to move
without me thinking.
About how I no longer checked my phone
every few minutes.
Writing had become a way
to slow things down.
To give moments
a place to rest.
Days passed.
Then weeks.
My routine settled into something steady.
Wake up.
Go to work.
Return home.
Write sometimes.
Read sometimes.
Sleep.
At work,
no one asked personal questions.
I liked that.
They knew my face.
They knew my schedule.
That was enough.
During lunch breaks,
I often sat alone.
Not because I had to,
but because I wanted to.
Once,
a coworker asked why I always ate by myself.
I thought about it.
Then said,
"I think better when it's quiet."
They nodded.
Didn't ask again.
Spring faded into summer.
The heat arrived gradually.
Fans worked harder.
Windows stayed open longer.
One evening,
I found an envelope in my bag.
I didn't remember putting it there.
Inside was a folded piece of paper.
Blank.
I stared at it for a long time.
Then I unfolded it.
Placed it on the desk.
Picked up my pen.
I wrote her name at the top.
Not in the center.
In the corner.
As if I didn't want it to feel too important.
I started writing.
Slowly.
I saw cherry blossoms again today.
Not the same ones.
But they fell the same way.
I stopped.
Crossed out the line.
Started again.
I hope you're doing well.
Too ordinary.
I crossed it out.
I still walk slowly.
That felt closer.
I continued.
Not thinking about sending it.
Just writing.
Pages filled.
Then stopped.
I folded the paper.
Put it back in the envelope.
Did not seal it.
The envelope stayed in my bag
for weeks.
Sometimes,
I took it out.
Read it.
Put it back.
I never added an address.
Summer passed.
Autumn returned.
Leaves fell.
The air cooled.
I visited the station often.
Not to go anywhere.
Just to sit.
I liked watching people wait.
The way anticipation showed
in small movements.
Tapping feet.
Glances at watches.
Once,
I thought I saw her.
From a distance.
My heart reacted before my mind did.
I stood up.
Took a step forward.
Then realized
it wasn't her.
I sat back down.
Embarrassed,
even though no one noticed.
That night,
I wrote about mistaken faces.
About how memory fills gaps
when it gets tired of waiting.
Winter returned.
Quietly.
Snow fell more often this time.
It stayed longer.
I received another message from her.
It snowed today.
I stared at the screen.
Smiled slightly.
It did here too, I replied.
That was all.
We didn't talk about meeting again.
We didn't talk about the past.
Some conversations don't need expansion.
One evening,
I walked past the old school.
Lights were on inside.
Students sat at desks.
Somewhere near the back,
a seat by the window waited.
I didn't stop.
I kept walking.
That night,
I wrote a longer letter.
Not to her.
To myself.
I wrote about the boy
who sat on the last bench.
About the girl
who sat beside him.
I wrote about names.
About missed moments.
About how time doesn't slow down
even when we ask it to.
The writing felt heavier.
But necessary.
When I finished,
I closed the notebook.
For the first time in a long while,
I felt tired in a good way.
Spring came again.
Cherry blossoms returned.
I stood beneath a tree
near my apartment.
Petals fell around me.
Some landed on my coat.
Some didn't.
I didn't count them.
I didn't feel the need to.
That evening,
I threw the envelope away.
Unopened.
Unsent.
It felt like closing a door quietly
so it wouldn't wake anyone.
I kept the notebook.
Some things are meant to stay.
At the station,
trains continued to arrive
at 7:42.
I noticed.
Then stopped noticing.
Life didn't change dramatically.
It adjusted.
One day,
I realized
I had stopped waiting.
The thought surprised me.
But didn't scare me.
I walked home slowly.
The city lights flickered on.
For a moment,
I imagined someone beside me.
Then let the image fade
without holding onto it.
That felt like progress.
That night,
I wrote one last entry for the chapter.
Some distances are not meant to be crossed.
They exist to teach us how to stand on our own.
I closed the notebook.
Turned off the light.
Outside,
snow began to fall again.
Slowly.
Quietly.
Not fast enough to notice.
But enough to change the ground
by morning.