Journal
Platform Thoughts
I turned to my left and saw two pea-sized headlights heading my way.
You stood there, around three elephant steps away. I could see the gleaming window on your background. It was busy, a string of eight to ten people formed an irregular S-shape right in front of it. One after the other, they claimed their magnetic cards and used the worn-out turnstile to make their way to the platform.
A commotion started to ensue and you were left at the back as if you got singled out. And the once pea-sized headlights I saw grew bigger and bigger quickly.
“Train’s coming,” I signaled using a partly closed fist and a straight thumb.
I remember how you hated my liking for trains. You hated how I enjoyed standing beyond the yellow line moments before the train comes to a complete stop. You hated how my hair gets blown towards the swift-moving, bulky metal, almost touching it. You once told me you were afraid that I’d get my limbs chopped off, and I believed you.
You hated how I liked being sandwiched between smelly, sweaty workers, or snobbish office ladies clad in suits and heels. You questioned how I thought it made no difference, and you would shake your head in disapproval whenever I tell you that in mass transit, everyone is treated equal.
You hated how I shared my fantasy of one day figuring in a train bombing with you. And perhaps you only hated it because I was narrating it inside a crowded carriage, and that it generated disgusting looks from everyone around us after I made that exploding sound. Because knowing your vileness, you had an even better albeit morbid thing in mind. You just didn’t have the guts to spill it because it would ruin your gray suit.
The train came to a stop. The train doors moved apart, making a hissing sound. I gave way to an elder woman beside me and thought of not hopping on.
I knew we were never going to see each other again. Two days from now, I’ll leave for a place where one would find it hard to differentiate mass transit lines from spaghetti on a bird’s eye view.
The sliding doors, which were about to close, made a beeping sound. For the last time, I took a last glimpse at your tired eyes before making my way through the sea of passengers. I had to do it even though I know, in your mind, you were holding me back.
I didn’t get the chance to turn around, afraid that I’d lose my balance. If there’s something about riding trains that I’m not good at, it’s maintaining my balance. You always complain about my weight and my body resting on yours whenever the tracks go on a transition curve.
You were right about these trains. They make time and distance seem so unappealing. Fleeting, perhaps is the more appropriate term. One way or another, we’re going to have to move.
So I guess this is the start of how we’ll drift apart.
Like trains running on opposite tracks.
