The Golden Hum of Waiting

The glass is cold against my forehead, a sharp contrast to the syrup-thick warmth of the afternoon sun. Outside, the city begins its evening exhale—a low hum of tires on asphalt and the distant, rhythmic clatter of trains that sound like heartbeats in steel shells. I am suspended here, caught in a rectangle of amber light where time seems to stretch and thin.

I hold the carton between my palms, feeling the slight condensation seep into my skin. It is a small, humble thing, yet it feels like an anchor in the current of the crowd. The milk is cool against my lips, a fleeting mercy that grounds me when my thoughts start to drift toward places I can no longer go and faces I haven't seen in years.

They say you cannot hold onto time. They are right; it slips through your fingers like water, impossible to grasp fully. But here, in this quiet corner between 'then' and 'next,' I feel whole. The light catches the dust motes dancing before me, turning mundane particles into tiny stars.

I see you watching me from the shadow of the pillar across the platform. You haven’t moved, yet your presence is a steady pulse in my periphery. There is a thread pulled taut between us—a silent chord vibrating in the air, unplayed but deeply felt. My heart beats against my ribs like a muffled drum, seeking its own rhythm.

I want to turn around and tell you that I am not just waiting for a train; I am waiting for the moment when your gaze finally breaks the silence and turns this fleeting second into something eternal. One more sip. One more breath in the golden light. Then, we begin again.

Editor: Vinyl Record