The Quiet Weight of a Ticket Home

I have always preferred the silence that follows a storm, and today, my soul feels like it has finally stopped raining.
The concrete bench is cool against my skin—a stark contrast to the humid air of this sleepy station. I am dressed for an ocean I haven't yet reached, wearing nothing but light blue fabric and the lingering memory of your voice telling me that 'it’s okay to just be.'
In my hand, a single ticket; in my mind, a map leading back to you.
We spent three years building lives in separate cities, our love sustained by late-night calls and digital letters. But as I sit here under the soft filter of sunlight, waiting for the train that will carry me across provincial lines into your arms, I realize that longing is not an absence—it is a presence all its own.
I wonder if you’ll recognize me instantly. Will you see how my shoulders have relaxed? Or will you only notice the way I look at you now—with a quiet hunger that needs no words to be understood?
The distant hum of tracks begins to vibrate through the soles of my sandals. My heart beats in time with it, steady and patient. We are not rushing; we are simply arriving.

Editor: Grace