Between Arrivals

On waiting rooms, quiet platforms, and the unassigned minutes that shape us

There are places in the world
that are not meant for staying.

Chairs bolted to the floor.
Timetables that flicker.
A ceiling that hums
without caring who listens.

She has always loved these places -
not for where they lead,
but for what they hold
in the waiting.

When she was younger,
she thought life would begin
once the right train arrived.

The right city.
The right person.
The right version of herself
stepping confidently onto the platform.

She believed in announcements then -
clear voices,
declared destinations.

But departures came and went
like weather.

Some loud.
Some delayed.
Some leaving behind
only the smell of metal
and a thin ribbon of wind.

Once, she ran for a closing door
and felt it seal.
The world did not end.

The next train came.

She learned the art
of standing still
while everything moved.

Strangers shared benches
without sharing stories.

Eyes met briefly -
then returned
to their own distances.

There were seasons
when she felt like luggage unclaimed,
circling the same belt of thought.

Her name mispronounced somewhere.
Her reflection wavering
in darkened glass.

Still -
she kept her ticket folded
inside the pocket of her coat.

Edges softened.
Ink fading.

Not as proof of destination.
Just something to hold.

One evening,
as light thinned into blue,
the station paused between announcements.

No arrivals listed.
No departures promised.

Just a platform
holding its breath.

She noticed -

The platform did not rush her.
The clock did not judge her.
The tracks did not insist.

They simply lay there,
side by side,
going somewhere.

It was enough
to be between.

Enough
to let her shoulders drop
an inch lower than usual.

Years later,
it was not the cities she remembered.

It was the benches.
The low hum.
The unassigned minutes
no one could claim from her.

Where she was not arriving
or leaving.
Not becoming
or proving.

Just present.

And wherever she goes now,
she carries that stillness -

like a small station at dusk,
lit but unannounced,
where something is always
about to begin.

And nothing
is forced.