The Last Train Home

The platform was nearly empty when Clara arrived. Her train wasn’t due for another twenty minutes, but she always liked to come early — not for the travel, but for the quiet before it.

She pulled her scarf tighter around her neck, watching her breath rise in the cold air. Somewhere down the track, a pigeon cooed, and the sound of distant chatter echoed from the main hall.

It was late — almost midnight — and the station lights cast long shadows across the concrete. She shifted her suitcase closer, trying not to think about the message she hadn’t replied to.

Then she heard footsteps.

When she turned, she froze.

It was him.

Liam.

He stopped a few meters away, just as surprised to see her. His hair was a little longer now, his coat the same dark gray one she remembered from last winter. In his hand was a ticket.

“Clara,” he said softly, almost as if saying her name might break the silence between them.

She blinked, her pulse quickening. “Liam. What are you doing here?”

He gave a nervous laugh. “I could ask you the same thing.”

“I’m going home,” she said. “For good.”

He nodded slowly, the weight of her words sinking in. “So it’s true.”

She looked down. “You heard?”

“Your brother mentioned it when I saw him at the café. I didn’t believe it.”

“Well,” she said, forcing a small smile, “believe it now.”

He nodded again, then stepped closer, his voice quieter. “You weren’t going to tell me?”

“I didn’t think there was anything to tell,” she said. “We said goodbye six months ago.”

“Yeah,” he said. “But it didn’t feel like a real goodbye.”

She exhaled. “It never does.”

For a long moment, neither spoke. The sound of the wind rushed through the open platform, and the station clock ticked somewhere above them, steady and cruel.

“You’re still terrible at wearing scarves,” he said suddenly.

She looked up, confused, then laughed when she realized the end of it was twisted around her shoulder. “You remember that?”

“Of course I do,” he said. “You never learned how to tie one properly.”

“And you always insisted on fixing it,” she said, rolling her eyes.

He smiled faintly. “Old habits.”

She let him take the edge of her scarf. His hands brushed her neck — warm, careful — as he tied it into a neat loop. When he was done, he stepped back, eyes searching hers.

“There,” he said softly. “Perfect.”

She swallowed, her throat suddenly tight. “You shouldn’t do that.”

“What?”

“Be kind,” she whispered. “It makes leaving harder.”

He looked at her for a moment, then said, “Then don’t leave.”

She laughed quietly, though it cracked halfway through. “Liam…”

“I’m serious.”

“I can’t stay. You know that.”

He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling. “You always said you wanted to see the world, not run from it.”

“I’m not running,” she said. “I’m… starting over.”

“And what if I’m part of what you’re supposed to start again with?” he asked, his voice breaking just slightly.

She looked at him — the man she’d spent three years loving, then another six months trying to forget. “We tried,” she said softly. “You know we did.”

“Then why do you still wear the necklace I gave you?”

Her hand instinctively went to her collarbone. The small silver pendant gleamed faintly under the station lights.

“It’s just a necklace,” she said, though her voice wavered.

“Then take it off,” he said gently.

She hesitated. “Why?”

“Because if it’s just a necklace, it shouldn’t matter.”

She stared at him, her fingers tightening around the pendant. Then she sighed. “You always know how to corner me.”

He smiled faintly. “No, I just know you.”

The clock struck 11:47. The sound echoed through the empty station like a reminder. Her train would arrive soon.

“Where are you going?” he asked quietly.

“Portsmouth,” she said. “My mother’s house.”

He nodded. “Back to the sea.”

“Yeah.”

He looked away, then back at her. “Remember the first time we went there together?”

“How could I forget?” she said. “You fell asleep on the sand and woke up sunburned.”

“You said it made me look heroic.”

“I said it made you look like a tomato.”

They both laughed, the tension breaking for a moment. But then her laughter faded, and silence returned.

“I don’t regret us,” he said suddenly.

She met his gaze. “Neither do I.”

“But you’re still leaving.”

“I have to.”

He took a slow breath, his eyes glistening faintly. “Then at least tell me why. The real reason.”

She hesitated, then said quietly, “Because I can’t keep waiting for you to love me the same way I love you.”

He froze. “Clara…”

“You did love me,” she said. “I know you did. But it was always something you kept safe — measured, controlled. I wanted something reckless. Something that would burn.”

His voice cracked. “I thought I was protecting us.”

“Maybe,” she said softly. “But you can’t protect love. You can only give it.”

For a moment, he couldn’t speak. The sound of a distant train horn cut through the silence, low and mournful.

She looked down the track. “That’s mine.”

He nodded, his jaw tight. “You still draw when you travel?”

“Sometimes,” she said. “Sketches, mostly.”

“Then draw this,” he said quietly. “So you don’t forget me.”

“I could never forget you,” she whispered.

The train lights appeared in the distance, slicing through the dark.

Liam stepped forward. “Clara…”

She looked up. His eyes were full of everything he’d never said.

“Say it,” she whispered. “Before it’s too late.”

He reached for her hand. “I love you. I should’ve said it louder, sooner, every day.”

Tears welled in her eyes. “You just did.”

The brakes screeched as the train pulled into the station. Steam hissed, filling the platform in a ghostly cloud.

Clara picked up her suitcase. “Goodbye, Liam.”

He shook his head. “No. Not goodbye. Just—see you.”

She smiled sadly. “You don’t believe that.”

“Maybe I do,” he said. “Maybe not now. But someday.”

The doors slid open. She stepped inside, pausing at the threshold.

“Do you still take the 7:10 train to work?” she asked suddenly.

He blinked. “Yeah. Every morning.”

She smiled. “Then maybe someday I’ll be on that train.”

And then she was gone.

The doors closed, and the train began to move. Liam stood there, watching it disappear down the tracks until the lights vanished into the night.

The station grew quiet again, the air heavy with the scent of rain and steel.

He sat down on the nearest bench, staring at the empty rails. Then, slowly, he noticed something glinting beside him — a silver necklace, coiled like a forgotten word.

He picked it up. The pendant was warm from her skin. On the back, he’d once engraved a single word: Always.

He closed his fist around it, his breath catching.

The clock struck midnight.

And for the first time, Liam whispered her name into the empty station, not as a memory, but as a promise:

“Always.”