The train station always smelled of rust and motion.
It was a kind of smell that clung to memory — burnt tracks, cold air, old announcements echoing like forgotten songs. Aarav had never liked the place. Too many goodbyes and not enough reasons for them.
But now, at 5:54 PM on a Friday evening, he stood at the edge of Platform 2, searching for something he couldn't name.
The letter from Suhani was folded neatly in his pocket, worn soft from being re-read all day.
He had skipped his last two classes. He hadn't told Kabir. He hadn't told anyone.
For once, Aarav wasn't trying to justify his actions.
He was just… there.
Waiting.
---
The platform wasn't crowded. A few vendors shouted half-heartedly. A woman chased a boy with a leaking water bottle. A couple leaned too close beneath the digital clock, whispering like the world would vanish if they stopped.
Aarav checked the time again.
5:59.
He exhaled.
And then, like a line in a poem falling into place, he saw her.
Suhani.
Hair tied loosely, sleeves rolled up, sketchpad peeking from her tote bag. Her eyes flicked across the station with caution, as though she half-expected him not to come.
When she spotted him, she paused.
Didn't smile.
Didn't wave.
Just breathed.
And walked toward him.
---
They stood face to face with the hush of arriving trains somewhere in the background.
Neither spoke.
For a moment, the silence wasn't awkward.
It was sanctuary.
Then Aarav said, softly, "You wrote... meet me. No explanations. No apologies."
She nodded. "So I won't ask why you didn't text. Or why you disappeared."
He looked down. "And I won't ask if the rumors were true."
Her shoulders relaxed.
"Thank you," she said. "For not asking."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the letter. Held it between them.
"I read this," he said, "and it felt like the kind of thing someone writes when they've decided not to wait for anyone's permission anymore."
"I haven't," she admitted.
"Haven't what?"
"Decided. On anything. I just… wanted to try trusting again."
Aarav held her gaze.
"I'm sorry I made that harder."
She blinked slowly. "I said no apologies."
He nodded. "Then let me say this: I remembered you."
---
They sat on a bench a little away from the platform edge.
The sun was low now, casting the station in a kind of tired gold. Shadows stretched. Conversations faded. The train was still fifteen minutes out.
"I used to come here with my brother," Aarav said, voice quiet. "Before he... left."
Suhani tilted her head. "Left?"
"He died. Years ago. Accident. He was the bright one. The kind of kid teachers adored. I used to think… if he'd lived, I wouldn't have had to try at anything. I'd be invisible, and it would've been easier."
She didn't interrupt.
"He believed in big things," Aarav continued. "Dreams. Kindness. The future."
"I think you believe in those too," Suhani said.
Aarav half-smiled. "Only when you're around."
A pause.
Then she whispered, "I was scared you believed the rumors."
"I did."
She flinched.
"But not because I wanted to," he added. "Because I've spent so long believing nothing lasts. That everyone walks away eventually. So I tried to walk away first."
Suhani looked at the tracks.
"They always teach us to be brave in front of others," she said. "But they never teach us how to be brave with others."
The next words tumbled out of Aarav before he could stop them.
"I missed you."
And then:
"I needed you."
---
The station clock clicked over to 6:12.
Her train would be here any minute.
"Are you going somewhere?" he asked suddenly.
She shook her head. "No. I just wanted to know if you'd come."
Aarav exhaled, slow and heavy, like he'd been holding something for too long.
Suhani opened her sketchbook, flipped to a page, and showed it to him.
It was a drawing of the three of them — her, Kabir, Aarav — standing near the bonfire.
Except in this version, their shadows stretched into stars.
"You didn't draw this before," he said.
"I couldn't draw it until I forgave it."
"Forgave?"
"You. Me. The silence."
He didn't reply.
He didn't need to.
Because in that sketch, he saw the truth:
They were all broken in their own ways.
And still, they were trying.
Trying to be better.
Trying to understand.
Trying to stay.
---
The train arrived with a screech.
Steam and motion.
People rushed.
Voices rose.
But the bench they sat on felt untouched.
Protected.
Suhani stood.
Aarav followed.
She reached out.
Took his hand.
Not like lovers.
Not like friends.
Like two people holding the same thread, refusing to let it fray.
"You're allowed to fall apart," she said. "Just don't disappear again."
"I won't," Aarav replied.
"I want to trust you."
"I want to deserve that."
Her fingers squeezed gently.
And for the first time in days, something clicked back into place inside him.
Not perfection.
Not certainty.
Just… possibility.
---
As the train pulled away, emptying the platform again, Aarav walked beside her, slow and quiet.
They didn't make promises.
Didn't define what this was.
But they walked in step.
And when the sky above them faded from gold to gray, it no longer felt heavy.
It felt like waiting.
For rain.
For morning.
For something new.
---
That night, Aarav opened his notebook.
He didn't write a poem.
Just a sentence:
> "I ran to the station thinking I might find you.
But what I found was the part of me I'd buried."