I don’t know what time your train is arriving. Actually, I don’t know if you’re arriving at all, or even if you’ve boarded a train headed to this station. Yet here I sit in the cavernous arrival hall, counting the ceiling tiles as I wait. Every time the split-flap board clacks with updates, my heart pounds in my chest, thinking maybe this will be the train that brings you back to me. I should probably leave the station, walk out into the night and make my way home. But that first step outside the station’s doors may break me in half. Here at least I can pretend to be like the others waiting for their beloved’s track number to be displayed. It’s that feeling that is holding me together.