The train screeched to a halt at the platform, its mechanical groan swallowed by the sea of voices rising and falling in chaotic harmony. Kavya adjusted the strap of her bag, her sketchbook tucked safely under her arm as she stepped onto the platform. She glanced at the time—4:17 PM—and sighed.
Her date had canceled.
It wasn’t unexpected. When the text came in an hour ago—“Something came up. Sorry!”—she had stared at her phone with a mix of frustration and resignation. Another day, another flake. But instead of turning back, she had decided to board the train anyway, refusing to let someone else’s inconsistency dictate her plans.
As she entered the coach and scanned for a seat, her gaze fell on a young man sitting by the window, his expression calm but distant. He looked like the kind of person who carried the weight of his own thoughts, someone far removed from the chaos around him.
The seat across from him was empty. On impulse, she walked over and sat down.
The man glanced at her briefly, then returned his gaze to the view outside.
“You don’t mind, do you?” Kavya asked.
He blinked, surprised by the question. “Uh, no. Not at all.”
“Great.” She dropped her bag onto the seat beside her and pulled out her sketchbook, flipping to a blank page.
He hesitated, as if debating whether to say more, before leaning back against the window. Kavya began sketching, her pencil gliding across the paper, capturing the shapes and shadows of the train interior.
After a few minutes, he spoke. “You’re an artist?”
She looked up, meeting his gaze for the first time. His eyes were warm, curious but cautious.
“I try to be,” she said. “What about you? What do you do?”
“I’m a teacher,” he replied. “Math and science.”
“Wow, a left-brain type,” she teased. “I’ll try not to scare you with my chaotic creativity.”
He smiled faintly. “I don’t scare that easily.”
There was a pause before she asked, “What’s your name?”
“Aditya,” he said. “And you?”
“Kavya.” She leaned back slightly. “So, Aditya the teacher, what brings you on this train today?”
He glanced out the window again. “Family visit. My mother’s birthday.”
“That’s sweet,” she said, studying him. “You don’t seem like the celebration type.”
“I’m not, really,” he admitted. “But she is. So here I am.”
Kavya smiled. “Sometimes it’s worth it, isn’t it? Seeing someone else happy?”
“Yeah,” he said, his voice soft. “Sometimes.”
For a while, they sat in companionable silence. Kavya continued sketching, the sound of her pencil blending with the rhythmic clatter of the train. Aditya watched her work, intrigued by the quiet focus on her face.
Finally, he asked, “What are you drawing?”
She turned the sketchbook around, revealing a rough but striking portrait of the train—a blurred suggestion of passengers, overhead luggage racks, and streaks of light from the windows.
“It’s… good,” he said, genuinely impressed.
“Thanks,” she replied. “It’s just a rough one. I like capturing the moment before it slips away.”
Aditya’s gaze lingered on the sketch. “That’s a nice thought.”
She studied him for a moment, then flipped to a fresh page. “Stay still.”
“What?”
“I’m sketching you,” she said, her tone matter-of-fact.
He laughed softly. “Why?”
“Because you’re interesting,” she replied, her pencil already moving.
Aditya wasn’t sure how to respond, so he didn’t. He sat quietly, letting her draw him as the train continued its journey.
When she finally turned the sketchbook toward him, he was startled by what he saw. It wasn’t just a likeness; it was a glimpse of himself—quiet, thoughtful, a little melancholic, yet grounded.
“I don’t know if I look like that,” he said after a moment.
“You do,” she replied simply.
The train began to slow as they approached the next station. Kavya glanced at her watch. “This is my stop.”
Aditya straightened. “Oh. Well… it was nice meeting you.”
“Likewise,” she said, tucking her sketchbook into her bag. She hesitated, then tore the page with his portrait out of the book and handed it to him.
“Here,” she said. “So you don’t forget me.”
Aditya took the sketch, surprised. “I won’t forget.”
She smiled, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “Good. Maybe I’ll see you on another train someday.”
As the doors opened, she stepped onto the platform without looking back. The train began to pull away, and Aditya sat there, holding the sketch in his hands.
He looked out the window, watching her figure grow smaller in the distance. For a fleeting moment, he considered running after her. But he stayed where he was, the portrait a quiet reminder of something unexpected, something fleeting yet meaningful.
“Some people pass through our lives like trains—brief, beautiful, and impossible to follow.”
