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.
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