There is a small village in the south west of France whose train station is often passed by conductors for its insignificance. It is not closed. It is not abandoned. It simply isn’t important enough to justify a stop on busy days. So trains move through it– without slowing.

For five years, I lived like that station.

I fell in love with Thomas when I was twenty. Though he was never mine to keep, I built platforms for him anyway. I rearranged my dreams, my country, myself — all to give him a reason to stop and stay. But he always passed through– without apology.

Yet I continued waiting for him. For five years, I waited for the day he would return and choose me. 

That’s how I found myself at the village station. We had planned to meet in his hometown in the south east of France. I arrived early, trying to calm my breathing and steady the tremor in my hands. 

The platform was empty at first, until an elderly couple arrived. She spoke French with a familiar accent and told him she was scared to travel without him. Then, in a peculiar twist to me, he didn’t laugh. He didn’t dismiss her fear. Instead, he held her hand. It was simple and unremarkable, perhaps. But it was certain.

He looked at her as though leaving did not threaten what they had. She looked at him as though returning was already understood. Nothing dramatic passed between them. Just steadiness and trust.

When the train arrived, he helped her up the steps and kissed her forehead. I stood behind them, waiting to board next. Watching them, something inside me hurt.

Love should not feel like hoping the conductor remembers your stop.

It should not feel like watching the tracks in the hopes that a train might arrive. Some towns are meant to be passed through. Some trains were never going to stop. Some love was only ever a route, not a destination.

The old man stepped aside and looked at me. “Aren’t you boarding too?”

Five years of being the station that waits to be chosen.

I didn’t know how to be anything else.

So I boarded the train.