The railway station breathed in slow, tired sighs.
Metal wheels screeched against the tracks.
An announcement echoed, half-clear, half-lost in static.
Somewhere nearby, a child was crying while someone laughed too loudly, as if trying to prove they were still alive.
I stood in the middle of it all, completely still.
In my hand was a folded piece of paper.
It had been written late at night, under a dim light, when courage only existed because sleep refused to come.
The paper was soft from being touched too many times, its edges worn down like my resolve.
It wasn't meant to be poetic.
It wasn't meant to be dramatic.
It was meant to end something.
"If you ever try to find me, don't.
I'm not lost. I'm choosing to leave.
Please remember me as someone who stayed once, not someone who ran."
I read the words again, even though I already knew them by heart.
Each line felt heavier than the last, as if the paper itself was pulling my hand down.
Words were strange like that.
They could build a life, and then quietly destroy it.
My mother stood next to me.
She looked smaller than I remembered.
Not physically—
but in the way people do when they already know they're about to lose something and can't stop it.
She didn't ask why.
She had asked that question weeks ago, and I had failed to answer it then.
"You'll miss the train," she said softly.
I nodded, even though we both knew I wasn't moving yet.
Her eyes scanned my face, as if trying to memorize it.
I wondered if she was looking for the boy she raised, or the stranger I had become.
"You always leave things unfinished," she said after a pause.
Her voice wasn't angry.
It was tired.
"I know," I replied.
There were so many things I wanted to say.
An apology.
A promise.
A lie that everything would be okay.
Instead, I said nothing.
Silence had become my safest language.
I looked around the platform.
This place had seen thousands of goodbyes.
Some hopeful.
Some temporary.
Some final.
I never thought mine would belong to the last kind.
The letter in my hand felt suddenly heavier.
Because it wasn't just for one person.
It was for the life I couldn't live.
The future I couldn't face.
The version of myself that stayed, tried, failed, and still kept going.
I wasn't brave enough to be that person.
The announcement came again.
My train number.
My direction.
Leaving didn't feel heroic.
It felt like surrender.
My mother reached out and fixed the collar of my shirt, the way she used to when I was younger.
Her fingers trembled just slightly.
"Eat properly," she said.
"Don't disappear completely."
I forced a small smile.
"I'll try."
But we both knew trying wasn't the same as staying.
As I stepped toward the train, my chest tightened.
My feet felt heavy, as if the platform itself was holding me back.
I wanted someone to stop me.
To call my name.
To give me one reason strong enough to stay.
No one did.
Because sometimes, the hardest goodbyes
are the ones everyone sees coming.
I climbed into the train and took a seat by the window.
The engine started with a low, steady hum.
Through the glass, I saw my mother standing exactly where I had left her.
She raised her hand in a small wave.
I raised mine too.
The train began to move.
Slowly, the platform slid away.
Faces blurred.
Voices disappeared.
And just like that,
I became someone who existed only in memories.
I opened my hand.
The letter was still there.
I hadn't left it behind yet.
Maybe that meant a part of me wasn't ready to disappear.
Or maybe it was proof
that some goodbyes take longer than a single train ride.
The station faded into the distance.
And with it,
the life I couldn't save.