I sit, toying with the same puzzle piece for minutes. I turn it in my hands, shifting my perspective to find the right place for it. A piece of the glistening silver train door, I think. Its corners are sharp, with the cardboard material separating from itself, the image peeling off the front. I fidget with it, placing it in the wrong spot for the hundredth time. Distantly, my name is called, and I stand, gathering my bookbag that weighs heavier every moment. 

 

I shuffle past the fluorescent lights, a pit gathering in my stomach. I am asked how I’m doing with a warm smile, and I shrug and mutter, “Fine.” I enter a dimly lit space with lamps and greenery hugging every corner, coloring sheets and fidget toys scattered on the table. I set down my bag full of bricks and settle into the squishy chair, hands clasping a small decorative pillow with tassels across my abdomen. “So how are you really doing?” I hear, as I observe my fingertips fidgeting with the beaded flower ring on my left pointer finger. I quickly glance up, barely seeing her through a sheen, and I just shake my head. 

 

I couldn’t bring myself to speak, a coat of phlegm too thick to speak through. My heart is thundering to the rhythm of a train chugging along on the tracks. Clearing my throat, I look past her at the cloudy natural light peeking through the small basement window as I watch life outside going by: students armed with backpacks rushing off to class and a dog running freely around the quad, no leash in sight. 

 

It all comes spilling out, at the speed of a bullet train, a word vomit that can’t be stopped. “He was younger than me.” Tears falling, face reddening, I grasp for the pillow’s tassels and pull their short strings apart. I bite my lip to distract from the pain in the deepest corner of my soul, fighting to keep myself together. 

 

I’ve only ever been on a train once before. I ran through the streets of Downtown Chicago, my small suitcase flying and bumping along the sidewalk behind me. I weaved in and out of crowds, narrowly avoiding getting hit by oncoming traffic. Sweaty and exhausted, I handed my ticket to the gatekeeper. He turned me away, he said, because I missed the train by only two minutes. 

 

So there I was, stranded in an unfamiliar station in an unfamiliar city, utterly and completely alone. 

 

I wonder if that’s how he felt when he did it. He also sought a way out and found himself at the train station. I hear the chugging of the tracks, a thunder in my heart, and see the light from outside, blinding me like a pair of headlights – 

– and then he’s gone.