The train moved steadily through the night, cutting through darkness with a low, constant sound. I sat by the window, my bag at my feet, watching the last lights of the city fade away. With every passing second, the distance between who I was and who I had been grew wider. Leaving was no longer an idea; it was happening, minute by minute, station by station.
My phone vibrated once in my pocket. I didn't take it out immediately. I already knew who it was, and that knowledge made my chest tighten. She never called without thinking. If she had called now, it meant she had already read the letter. The thought made my hands feel cold. After a long pause, I checked the screen. One missed call. No message. I didn't know which hurt more—the call itself or the silence that followed it.
I leaned back and closed my eyes, but sleep refused to come. Every time I tried to rest, memories surfaced instead. Not the dramatic ones, but the small, ordinary moments that mattered the most. Her sitting across from me, listening without interrupting. The way she noticed when something was wrong even before I spoke. The quiet understanding in her eyes when I chose silence over honesty.
I had met her at a time when my life felt directionless. I wasn't searching for love or comfort, yet she became both without effort. She never tried to fix me, and that was exactly why I trusted her. Being with her felt easy, natural, like breathing. And that scared me more than anything else. Because easy things become important before you realize it, and important things bring expectations.
The train slowed down briefly at another station. A few passengers stepped in, their faces tired but familiar with routine. I watched them and wondered how many of them were running from something, just like me. It struck me then that leaving doesn't always mean moving forward. Sometimes it simply means avoiding the place where you're supposed to grow.
My mother's face came back to me, the way she had stood on the platform, trying to stay strong for my sake. She hadn't asked me to stay, and that restraint hurt more than if she had begged. She knew me too well. She knew that pressure would only push me further away. Her words echoed softly in my mind: Don't disappear completely. I wondered if I already had.
I took the letter out of my bag again, unfolding it slowly. The words stared back at me, calm and final. I had written them carefully, choosing sentences that sounded kind, reasonable, even mature. But reading them now, I saw what they really were—an escape. I had convinced myself that leaving would hurt less than staying and failing, that distance would somehow protect the people I loved from my uncertainty.
The truth was harder to admit. I was afraid of becoming someone she would eventually resent. Afraid of making promises I might break. Afraid that loving her meant being seen clearly, without excuses. Leaving felt like the safer choice, even if it was the lonelier one.
Outside, the darkness stretched endlessly, broken only by occasional lights. Time kept moving, indifferent to my doubts. Somewhere behind me, she was learning how to live with an absence she hadn't chosen. Somewhere ahead, I was heading toward a future I didn't fully believe in.
The train didn't stop. It carried me forward, whether I was ready or not. And as I sat there, awake and restless, one thought settled heavily in my heart: leaving was not the end of pain. It was only the beginning of a quieter kind.