By Aashima Rawal
The station was louder than usual that morning, a chaotic symphony of voices, train announcements, and hurried footsteps echoing off the tiled walls. Emma stood by the platform edge, her fingers fidgeting with the strap of her shoulder bag. The 8:05 express had yet to arrive, and her heart raced in tandem with the flashing clock above—8:03, 8:04.
She glanced down the tracks, where the rails disappeared into the distant, shadowed tunnel. Her phone buzzed in her pocket—a message from Aaron. She hesitated for a second before pulling it out, her thumb hovering above the screen. “Come home, please,” it read. Short, desperate. Her breath caught, and she had to look away. Aaron’s words burned against her retinas.
Emma had left the night before, an argument still throbbing in her mind—a stupid argument, really, over something so trivial she couldn’t even remember how it had started. But she remembered the sharp words they’d hurled at each other. The tightness of Aaron’s jaw. The way he’d said, “Maybe we need space.”
Her shoulders slumped. She replayed that night over and over, the seconds ticking away until she could no longer tell if she was waiting for the train or for herself to come to a decision.
A shout broke her reverie—a child crying, the sound lost amid the rumbles and grinding metal of an approaching train. The clock switched to 8:05. The wind picked up, the express coming in fast, its bright headlights cutting through the station’s early morning haze.
Emma felt the vibration of the train underfoot as it approached. She took a step back, her phone still in her hand. Her thumb moved without her thinking, the screen lighting up as she replied: “On my way.” She hit send.
Then she heard it—a gasp. Emma turned her head just in time to see a flash of red—a balloon, slipping from a small child’s grasp, bouncing toward the tracks. A mother’s frantic scream ripped through the air as her little boy chased after it, his small legs darting out, oblivious to the express bearing down.
For one second, one terrible, elongated second, everything stopped. Emma felt her body move before her mind caught up—she lunged forward, her bag falling to the ground, her phone clattering to the concrete. Her fingers closed around the boy’s shirt, yanking him back with every ounce of strength she had.
The train roared past, deafening, a blur of metal that brushed the very edge of Emma’s sleeve. She fell backward onto the platform, the boy landing beside her, a scream dying in his mother’s throat as she ran toward them, sobbing.
Emma sat up, breathless, her vision swimming, her hands trembling as they let go of the child. The mother was there now, pulling the boy into her arms, her thank-yous coming out in gasps between tears.
The station returned to its chaotic rhythm. The train had gone. People stared, then moved on, their lives continuing without pause.
Emma reached for her phone. The screen had cracked, but she could still see the message she’d sent, glowing bright against the shattered glass: “On my way.”
A minute too late, and that child might have died. A minute too late, and Aaron’s words—her choice—might have gone unspoken, lost in the tunnel of indecision.
She stood, her legs shaky, and nodded at the mother who still held her child close. Emma took a deep breath, picked up her bag, and began to walk—away from the platform, toward the exit, back to Aaron. She wasn’t running away anymore. Time, fragile and fleeting, had given her one more chance.
She wouldn’t waste it.
* * *
Aashima Rawal is a freelance writer whose work has appeared in publications such as FUTBOLISTA Magazine and NPQ Magazine. She enjoys crafting emotionally resonant stories that explore themes of resilience, transformation, and the intricacies of human relationships. Drawing inspiration from everyday life, Aashima seeks to capture moments that connect deeply with readers.