I always find myself on the train; the last carriage. She’s outside, on the platform. No matter how much I urge myself to stand up and jump off that train into her arms, I can’t. There’s something stopping me; some energy, some thought, some… something just that wants me to sit there and submit. To stare into her eyes through the window, reliving those years we shared together around the world, through the times we almost broke apart through our own selfish ways, to the times we stood together on the top of mountains overlooking the world below, with nothing but the clouds above us, to the time I proposed.

The train starts up. She’s still out there. I can’t move, yet I feel the tears, from me and from her. This is it. After this, we’ll never see each other again. Those years we spent together mean nothing anymore; just a statistic on a whiteboard, that’ll be scrubbed off eventually. Yet neither of us are able to say something, to make this stop.

She’s gone. It’s too late, she’s in the distance now. I’m here alone. Going from Point A to Point B; I always had the thrill of the mystery, not knowing where I’d end up or what I should expect when I get there, but I think the thrill came with sharing the experience with her. Now, I’ll have to face this realisation.

I used to talk about how I’d hate to become someone who felt so controlled by travel, that they became imprisoned by it. That after that first trip, collecting the baggage from the belt in the airport when the euphoria hits. A weird feeling of being reunited with friends, family, loved ones, and being in this honeymoon phase of having the daily visits, catching up with these people, only to find that they haven’t changed one bit, yet you can’t relate to them. You’ve changed; dramatically. Then the urge comes back, and you catch yourself thinking about the next trip. A transient. A person that can just pack a bag and go, leaving responsibilities and ties behind.

I’m a transient. She fell in love with me because I talked about the world, and how I’d show it to her, day by day. We did see the world together, and it was everything I had imagined, her too. There comes a time however when one of us feels that they’ve had enough; the honeymoon period gets too much, the line between reality and transience becomes fainter and fainter. Then the fear kicks in. She had to stop, but she didn’t tell me. She couldn’t because I wouldn’t let her. Blinded by love and by our past, I only ever thought about new places to go because it’s how we first connected. The moments around the world when we’d be in awe of our surroundings, when we’d look into each other’s eyes and share that moment. I was chasing this feeling and not listening to her when she needed me the most.

She was crumbling and I was too ignorant to spot it. I know that now.

I’m a transient. My life is between Point A and Point B. The mystery is still there, but the excitement is a few kilometres back on that platform, with perfect hair and a smile that would say everything I needed to hear, without having to listen.

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