The Moment The Train Did Not Stop For Us

I stood on the platform with my hand still raised from waving and knew from the way the train rushed past without slowing that whatever we had been waiting for together had already chosen to leave.

The wind from its passing tugged at my coat and pulled loose strands of hair into my mouth. The metal screamed briefly against the rails and then settled into a distant rhythm that faded toward the hills. The station clock ticked loudly in the sudden quiet. You stood beside me with your hands clasped tight like you were holding yourself together and did not look at me when the last car disappeared. The space where the train should have been felt louder than its arrival ever could have.

Millstone sat between two larger towns and survived mostly by being passed through. Trains slowed there sometimes but rarely stopped. People said that was the price of living somewhere small and out of the way. I had grown up hearing the whistles at night and learned which ones meant arrival and which meant nothing at all. You arrived one morning in late spring on a train that did stop unexpectedly. You stepped down onto the platform squinting into the light like you were surprised to be seen.

We met because you asked me where the cafe was and I walked you there even though it was only a block away. You talked easily like you were grateful for company and I listened like I had been waiting for something to interrupt my routine. We sat at a small table by the window and watched the street wake up. You said you were only staying a little while. I said everyone said that at first.

You rented a room above the old hardware store and spent your afternoons wandering the town. I saw you everywhere. At the river path. At the library. Sitting on the steps of the station reading a book you did not always turn the pages of. Sometimes you waved when a train passed. Sometimes you just listened.

We fell into each other’s days without planning to. Coffee in the mornings. Walks in the evenings when the light softened and the heat lifted. We talked about books and places and the strange comfort of knowing when trains would pass even if you were not going anywhere. You asked me why I stayed. I said because someone had to notice the details. You smiled like you understood that more than you expected to.

By early summer the evenings stretched long and warm. We sat on the station platform after dark with our feet dangling off the edge and listened to the insects hum. You leaned back on your hands and tilted your face up to the stars. You said you liked how the town went quiet between trains. I said I liked knowing when to expect noise.

The first time our hands touched it was accidental. A train roared past unexpectedly and startled us both. You reached out and caught my wrist to steady yourself and did not let go right away. The contact felt grounding and alarming at the same time. When you finally released me we both laughed too quickly.

After that the restraint grew heavier. We touched lightly. Briefly. Like we were testing the edges of something neither of us wanted to name. You started talking about your next stop more often. I started dreading the sound of the whistle even as I listened for it.

One evening as we walked along the tracks you told me you had come to Millstone to decide whether to keep moving. You said you were tired of being in between places. You said stopping felt risky. I said so did never stopping. We stood there until the sun dipped low and the rails glowed faintly.

The day you told me you had bought a ticket the sky was overcast and heavy. We sat in the cafe and watched people pass the window. You said you had not decided if you would use it yet. You folded the receipt carefully and tucked it into your wallet. I said you should do what felt right. The words felt practiced and insufficient.

The days that followed felt suspended. We continued our routines but everything felt sharpened. Each train passing sounded like a question. One night we sat on the platform and watched the lights of a distant train approach. You rested your head briefly against my shoulder and then pulled away like you had crossed a line by accident.

The morning of your departure the station felt too bright. The clock ticked loudly. We stood side by side and waited. When the train came it did not slow. It thundered through Millstone without pause and left us standing there stunned. You laughed softly and said maybe it was a sign. I did not know what it was a sign of.

We waited for the next one. It came hours later. You stepped onto the train this time and turned to look at me through the open door. There were words in your face you did not say. I did not say mine either. The door closed. The train pulled away slowly and then faster.

Now when trains pass through Millstone I still pause and listen. The platform holds the echo of that morning. I stand there sometimes and remember the way we waited together for something to stop. The trains keep moving. So do I. But every so often when the whistle sounds just right I lift my hand without thinking and feel the ghost of you beside me.