After the Last Train - Part 8 - Final

 

The Ordinary Days

Days did not stop.

Office emails still arrived.
Meetings were still scheduled.
Files still required signatures.

Kabir returned to work.

At first, everything felt distant, like watching life through glass.

He avoided Platform 3.

He stopped noticing autos.

Coffee became just coffee again.

Weeks passed.

The sharp pain softened.

The memories blurred at the edges.

Her voice became harder to recall clearly.

Sometimes he tried to remember how she laughed 
but the sound would fade midway.

Gradually

He stopped checking old chats.

He stopped standing near the place where it happened.

He stopped waiting.

Routine is powerful.

It fills spaces.

It covers cracks.

It teaches you how to wake up, work, eat, sleep 
without reopening wounds.

Months later, he could go through an entire day without thinking of her.

Not because she meant little.

But because life kept moving.

And so did he.

Somewhere, deep inside,
a small corner still held a train platform,
an unfinished coffee,
and a soft voice saying

“Bye… thank you so much.”

But outside

He continued.

Just another man.

Just another day.

And many more days similar like this....

After the Last Train - Part 7

 

The Last Glance

Platform 3 waited quietly.

Kabir reached early.

He checked the clock.
7:38.

He checked his phone.
No message.

7:45.
A train arrived. People rushed. She didn’t step out.

7:52.
He called. It rang. No answer.

“Maybe traffic,” he muttered.

8:05.

Something inside him shifted from hope to mild irritation.

“Fine,” he whispered to himself. “If she doesn’t want to come…”

He slipped his phone back into his pocket and began walking out of the station.

The evening felt strangely heavy.

As he crossed the road outside, a small crowd had gathered ahead.

Vehicles were halted.
People were whispering.

He would have walked past.

He almost did.

But something — maybe instinct — made him look.

An auto stood crushed sideways.

And on the road—

A familiar bag.

His steps slowed.

His heartbeat didn’t.

It stopped.

Through the small gap in the crowd, he saw her.

Mira.

Lying still.

Someone was holding her hand.

Her eyes were half-open, searching — unfocused.

Then—

She found him.

Across the chaos.

Across the noise.

Across everything they never said.

For a second, the world went silent.

Her lips trembled.

In pain. In effort.

But she smiled.

Faint. Soft.

And with whatever breath was left, she whispered—

“Bye… thank you so much.”

Not accusing.

Not regretting.

Just grateful.

Her eyes slowly lost her hold on him.

The noise returned.

People moved.

Someone shouted for an ambulance.

But Kabir stood frozen.

Platform 3 was only a few steps behind him.

Yet he had never felt farther from her.

After the Last train - Part 6

 

The Silence That Spoke

Time did not stop.

It simply stretched.

Weeks passed with polite messages.

“Reached?”
“Yes.”
“Work fine?”
“Hmm.”

Words became shorter.

Feelings did not.

Mira had started leaving home earlier than necessary.
She told herself it was to avoid rush hour.

But sometimes, she stood near Platform 3 — just for a minute.

Not waiting.

Just standing.

As if the air there still remembered them.

Kabir had begun taking autos more often, even when buses were easier.

He would sit quietly, watching the side mirror.

Every time the auto driver adjusted it, he remembered how Mira once complained,
“Why do they always drive like they’re in a race?”

He smiled to himself.

Then looked away.

One afternoon, rain came suddenly.

Heavy. Unplanned. Loud.

Mira got stuck outside her office without an umbrella.

She laughed helplessly — because he always carried one.

She almost dialed his number.

Almost.

Instead, she stood under a small shade, letting the rain splash her shoes.

At the same time, miles away, Kabir noticed it was raining.

Without thinking, he checked his phone.

No message.

He locked it again.

Something was changing.

Not love.

Not care.

Just—

The way they held it.

That evening, she finally sent a message:

“Are you free for coffee sometime?”

It was simple.

No hidden meaning.

No dramatic pause.

He stared at it longer than he should have.

Then replied:

“Platform 3?”

She smiled.

“Platform 3.”

It wasn’t about trains anymore.

It wasn’t about convenience.

It wasn’t even about distance.

It was about choosing the same place —

Even after walking separate roads.

After the Last Train - Part 5

 

In Between Everything

Days adjusted.

They no longer stood on the same platform every morning.
No more shared coffee at 7:42.
No more predictable glances from across the tracks.

Now they traveled in opposite directions.

But strangely 

They began meeting in smaller, quieter places.

Mira would sit in her new office cafeteria, staring at a cup of coffee she barely drank.

She didn’t even like coffee much.

But the steam rising from it reminded her of the way Kabir used to hold his cup carefully, blowing on it as if it were fragile glass.

She would smile unknowingly.

At the same time, Kabir would step out of his office building and hear an auto driver argue loudly with a passenger.

Instantly 

He would turn his head.

For a second, he would expect to see her waving her hands dramatically, negotiating over five rupees as if it were a national debate.

He would almost smile.

Then remember.

She wasn’t there.

Distance did not shout.

It quietly slipped into daily routines.

She would draft emails and suddenly think, He would correct this sentence.
He would organize his files and think, She would mess this table in five minutes.

They didn’t call daily.

Not because they didn’t want to.

But because something delicate had entered between them — a carefulness.

One evening, while waiting for her train, Mira typed a message:

“Do you ever miss Platform 3?”

She stared at it for a long time.

Deleted it.

At the same time, Kabir stood near an auto stand, watching drivers argue.

He opened their chat window.

Typed:

“Coffee tastes bad alone.”

Deleted.

Neither wanted to sound needy.

Neither wanted to disturb the balance.

Yet

Whenever she saw coffee, she thought of him.

Whenever he saw an auto, he thought of her.

The city was full of reminders.

Not loud enough to hurt.

Not soft enough to ignore.

And somewhere between missed trains and unfinished messages

Their almost-love was learning to breathe quietly.

After the Last Train - Part 4

 

A Seat Without Reservation

The 8:10 train was different.

More crowded. More impatient. Less familiar.

Kabir stood near the door, slightly off-balance — not because of the train’s movement, but because he wasn’t used to not knowing the rhythm.

Mira held the overhead handle and looked at him sideways.

“Uncomfortable, Mr. Timetable?”

“I prefer structured chaos,” he replied.

She laughed. “This is unstructured chaos. Promotion comes with adventure.”

He noticed the small differences.

She stood more confidently now.
Her bag was heavier.
Her smile — the same.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked after a while.

“Because,” she said, “if I had told you before, you would have said ‘think practically.’ You would have calculated distance, time, fuel, comfort.”

“And that’s wrong?”

“No,” she smiled. “But sometimes I want to choose something before you measure it.”

The train jerked suddenly.

She lost balance slightly.

Without thinking, he held her wrist.

For a second, neither moved.

Then she slowly pulled her hand back.

“Relax,” she said lightly. “I won’t miss this train.”

He looked out the door.

“Platform 3 feels strange without you,” he admitted.

“Platform 1 felt strange without you too,” she replied softly.

A vendor squeezed between passengers shouting, “Chips! Biscuits!”

Mira bought a packet and handed it to Kabir.

“For emotional support,” she said.

He shook his head but took it.

“Tell me something,” she continued. “If one day I shift to a city where there is no train… what will you do?”

He didn’t answer immediately.

The announcement echoed: Next station…

He looked at her.

“I might finally be late.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“For what?”

“For once,” he said quietly, “I don’t want to reach before you.”

The train slowed.

Doors opened.

Crowd moved.

But this time 

Neither of them rushed.

After the Last Train - Part 3

 

The Girl Who Took Another Route

Kabir didn’t board the train.

Not because he believed the rumor.

But because something felt incomplete.

He turned to the tea stall uncle. “Which crossing?”

“Arrey, nothing serious maybe,” the uncle said quickly. “She didn’t die. Some small accident. People were saying she was arguing with an auto driver and stepped onto the road without looking.”

Kabir almost smiled.

Of course.
Arguing with auto drivers was her cardio.

That evening, he dialed her number again.

This time, it rang.

Once.
Twice.

Then—

“Hello?”

Her voice.

Alive. Normal. Slightly annoyed.

He didn’t realize he had been holding his breath.

“Mira?”

“Who else will pick up my phone?” she replied. “Why are you calling like you’re checking hospital records?”

He exhaled slowly. “Where have you been?”

“Different route.”

“What?”

“New job. Opposite direction. 8:10 train from Platform 1 now. Promotion, Mister Timetable.”

He processed that.

“You could have told me.”

“You could have asked earlier,” she shot back gently.

Silence stretched between them — not angry, just unfamiliar.

He walked toward Platform 1.

“Are you there now?” he asked.

“Maybe.”

He climbed the stairs two at a time.

There she was.

Standing near the pillar. Same messy hair. Same oversized bag. A small bandage near her eyebrow.

“You okay?” he asked, pointing at it.

She shrugged. “Fought with gravity. Gravity won.”

He stared at her for a second longer than usual.

“You didn’t miss the train forever,” he said quietly.

She smiled.

“I told you. I only miss trains. Not people.”

The announcement echoed.

8:10 local approaching Platform 1.

Kabir looked at his usual Platform 3 in the distance.

Then back at her.

“You know,” she said teasingly, “people can change trains.”

He adjusted his bag strap.

“Trains don’t wait,” he replied.

She stepped toward the arriving train.

“But people can move.”

The doors opened.

For the first time—

Kabir boarded her train.

After the Last Train - Part 2

 

The Platform Without Her

The next morning, Kabir reached early.

As always.

Platform 3.
7:42 a.m. local.
Coffee from the same tea stall. Less sugar.

He stood near the yellow line, pretending not to look toward the staircase.

She would come.

Late. Dramatic. Complaining about traffic.

7:40.

7:41.

7:42.

The train arrived.

Doors slid open.

Passengers rushed in.

Kabir didn’t move.

His eyes stayed fixed on the stairs.

No messy hair.
No oversized bag slipping off her shoulder.
No breathless “Waitttt!”

The whistle blew.

The train started moving.

At the last second, he stepped inside.

Maybe she missed it today.

It happens.

The ride felt unusually quiet.

No one argued about whether window seats were overrated.
No one said, “Look at that uncle, he boards like it’s a war mission.”

The evening came.

He waited again.

Nothing.

The tea stall owner looked at him and asked casually,
“Sir, your friend not coming?”

Kabir shrugged. “Maybe busy.”

Third day.

Fourth.

A week.

Her number?

He had it.

But they were never the calling-each-other type. They were platform people. Train people. Shared-moment people.

Still, one night, he dialed.

Switched off.

He told himself not to overthink.

People get busy.
People change routes.
People shift cities.

But something was different.

The tea stall uncle said softly one morning,
“You didn’t hear?”

Kabir’s fingers tightened around the paper cup.

“Hear what?”

“There was an accident near the crossing last week. A girl… same time… people said she was running to catch train.”

The cup slipped slightly.

Kabir didn’t blink.

“Many people gather. Traffic. Ambulance. After that… don’t know.”

The train arrived behind him.

He didn’t turn.

For the first time in months

Kabir missed the train.