Between Two Stations of a Dream

The train arrives not as a vehicle, but as a soft blur in the periphery—a green streak that marks time without ever truly counting it. I stand on this platform where the air smells of ozone and anticipation, clutching my leather bag like an anchor to a world that feels increasingly translucent.
I am waiting for you. Not just your arrival, but the way you exist between breaths: how you look when you first step off the carriage into the dim light of early evening. There is something unfinished about us—a conversation left hanging in mid-air three months ago, a touch that never quite landed.
My cream cardigan holds onto the chill of autumn, yet beneath it, my heart beats with a warmth I cannot name. It is an alluring kind of ache; the sensation of being almost known but not entirely seen. As you walk toward me through the crowd—your figure still vague and shimmering in the distance—I feel us dissolving into one another.
We are two souls caught at the edge of reality, where every gaze is a promise and every silence an invitation to be something more than we were meant to be.

Editor: The Unfinished