Part 1
When the last train of the night arrived at the station, there were only two people on the platform—me and her.
The fog was thin, but her eyes shone brightly, as if they were carrying stories never spoken.
"Do you still wait?"
she asked suddenly.
I smiled and replied,
"Some people leave, but waiting stays behind."
She didn't say anything more. The train doors opened.
As she stepped down, she looked back once.
In that single glance lived all the stories we never told.
The train left.
I stayed.
That night I understood—
not all love is meant to be held.
Some love is born only to be remembered.
And since then,
at every last station,
I search for the light—
hoping that one day,
she will step down again.
Part 2
After that night, I was never the same.
Every sound of an approaching train felt like her return.
The station slowly became my habit.
The tea seller recognized me,
the ticket checker stopped asking
why I stood there every night at the same hour.
They didn't know—
I wasn't waiting for a train,
I was waiting for an unfinished sentence.
One evening, rain began to fall.
The platform grew wet, the lights blurred.
And then I heard a voice—
"Do you still wait?"
The voice hadn't changed.
Time changes many things,
but some words remain untouched.
I turned around.
She stood there—wet hair, tired eyes,
carrying the same unspoken story.
I said nothing.
Neither did she.
We stood side by side.
Some questions don't need answers—
silence is enough.
The rain stopped.
The train arrived.
Who would leave,
and who would stay—
that decision began writing itself
right there,
by the open door of the train.
Part 3
The train doors stayed open longer than usual.
People stepped in, people stepped out.
Time seemed to pause just for us.
She looked at the train, then at me.
"I came back," she said softly,
"to see if you were still the same."
I shook my head.
"No," I replied,
"I'm not the same.
Waiting changes people."
She smiled—sad, understanding.
"Then I think… my answer is here."
The announcement echoed through the station.
Last stop. Final call.
She took one step toward the train,
then stopped.
"Some love," she said,
"isn't meant to be continued.
It's meant to be honored."
I nodded.
Because for the first time,
waiting didn't hurt.
She entered the train.
The doors closed.
But this time,
I didn't search for her face through the window.
The train left.
The lights faded.
And the station grew quiet.
I turned away.
That night, I learned something important—
closure doesn't always come from reunion.
Sometimes, it comes from letting go.
Since then,
I still visit the station,
but I no longer wait.
The light at the last station still shines—
not as hope for her return,
but as proof that
some stories end beautifully
simply because
they ended.