Once, as I was leaving home waiting for the subway, I experienced something that scared me. There was a moment, however brief, that I contemplated jumping. I could hear the sound of the subway train approaching, echoing through the long tunnel. I saw all the men returning from work, all of the children with their parents, but nobody saw me. I wanted, in that moment, to jump.
I approach the thick yellow line outlining the danger that I sought. I heard my breath accelerate, then catch. The train passed me, and I felt the wind pick up my hair and brush it to the side, away from my face. I cried because I was reminded again of what it was to be alive.
A few months had passed, and I found myself at the same platform. This time I was not alone. You and I heard the whir of the approaching train; we could feel the familiar movement of stiff air. You were leaving, and we knew that we had but seconds to say goodbye.
You kissed me. You took my face, in those hands I always loved, and kissed me like it was the last time. The wind picked up my hair, but this time, it was you who brushed it to the side, off of my tear stained face. I felt the pull, the motion that was made by that moment. That was the last time we kissed.
I boarded the subways and you walked towards your platform. In that moment, I wished that I had jumped.