The train pulls away, its doors sealed shut,
and in the faint reflection of the window,
I see possibilities waving goodbye—
ghosts of “what ifs”
drifting like shadows in the distance.
Their hands are cold and relentless,
pressing against my chest,
pulling me back
to a place that no longer exists.

You stepped off,
carrying your decision like luggage,
while I stayed behind,
anchored to this blue-patterned seat.
In my lap, a notebook lies open—
its pages waiting for a story
I’m not ready to write.
The chapters of us are locked away,
their edges sharp,
their weight unbearable.

The train pulls me forward,
but my heart is an anchor
still buried in the platform where you let go.
I write of love, of loss,
of the quiet collapse of hope—
how it shatters without sound,
leaving only the fragments behind.

Outside the window,
fields stretch endlessly,
trees blur into fleeting streaks of green and gold.
But the reflection in the glass
does not let me escape.
The “what ifs” are still there,
etched into the surface,
etched into me,
whispering in loops I cannot silence.

The next station is far away,
and I am far from ready to leave.
The music in my ears blares louder,
each note a desperate attempt
to drown the quiet.
But the quiet creeps in,
turning every lyric
into a line of grief.

In the reflection,
you are gone.
But the shadow of you lingers—
a phantom in the corners of my mind,
dragging me back to what never was.

And still, the train does not stop.
It carries me forward,
pulling my body through the motion of leaving
while my heart stays behind,
lost in the endless cycle
of holding on to what I’ve already lost.