Chapter 15 — The Spaces We Leave Ourselves In
The platform smelled like iron, dust, and unfinished goodbyes.
Ananya stood by the train door, one hand gripping the metal handle, the other wrapped around the strap of her bag. The evening sun filtered through the high station roof, falling in strips across the floor — light and shadow like hesitation.
Adrian stood a few feet away, hands in pockets, shoulders squared like he was bracing against something only he could feel.
He had not looked at her properly since they left the apartment.
Not once.
Because he knew. If he did, he would not let her go.
The announcement echoed overhead. The train shuddered alive beneath her feet.
She stepped up, then turned back. He raised his hand, waving — controlled, steady, almost casual.
She walked back down. Before he could process it, she was in front of him.
Then she leaned forward — resting her forehead briefly against his chest — and pressed a soft kiss there.
Not dramatic. Not desperate. But enough. Enough to make his heart misfire.
"You'll be missed the most," she whispered.
His throat tightened.
She stepped back quickly, like staying longer would undo everything.
"Come and pick me up Sunday evening," she said, smiling — that same small, brave smile he had learned was her way of holding herself together.
He nodded.
"Don't lose this smile when you come back," he said quietly.
"I'll be waiting for you."
The train began moving.
She stood by the door, one hand holding the railing, the other lifting slowly in a wave.
He stayed there long after the train disappeared.
Long after the platform emptied.
Long after the sky turned fully dark.
Day One — The Silence That Follows Someone
Her apartment felt different the moment he opened it.
Not empty.
But paused.
Like the air itself was waiting.
He placed the spare keys on the table, then immediately picked them back up and slid them into his pocket again. He didn't like the idea of leaving them there.
He walked inside slowly.
Her mug was still in the sink.
Her shawl was draped over the chair.
Her flower journal lay on the coffee table, slightly open — like she had left mid-thought.
His chest tightened.
He moved toward the balcony.
The plants.
He exhaled shakily.
"Okay," he muttered to himself. "Task one. Don't kill the plants."
He watered them carefully, reading the sticky notes she had placed on some pots.
