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.
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