10:58 pm. The lights shut off, plunging the sleeper train into a forced silence. A palpable weight settles into all of the passengers. Chattering voices peter out to a distant buzz. AirPod cases flick open and click shut. Bones crack and knuckles pop. The unmistakable sound of fidgeting fills the cabin. 

It's going to be a long night. Might as well get comfortable. 

Outside the window, I catch fleeting glimpses of an unfamiliar town – somewhere in Southern France, perhaps? We boarded the train in Toulouse, clutching our youth discount cards like a lifeline. Just three students in a country thousands of miles from home, finding a way back to our tiny apartment in Paris. It wasn't ever much, but it's where our chapter began. 

Inside the cabin, jackets rustle as a flurry of devices are whipped out. My eyes adjust slowly to the alluring blue lights in the consuming darkness. It's like I'm stargazing – I stare because I know there is more I am not seeing. Phone and laptop screens illuminate people's faces like personal halos, revealing those battling sleep in favour of work, or those not yet ready to slip in the silence of their own thoughts.

The familiar glow of streetlights paints our cabin a fluorescent orange hue. Streaks and stains blur the view, and I wonder, when did it start raining? The drops peppered the windows so silently, almost like they didn't want to disturb us. I wonder how many moments slip by like this: silent, unassuming, yet leaving behind an unmistakable trace. 

Across the table that separates us, I see her struggling to fall asleep. She tucks her knees to her chest, curling her long legs into a faux foetal position, like she's fighting even when she sleeps. I know she'll complain about her back in the morning, but I'll be the first to offer a massage. 

The rain falls softly now, just like the day we met. Strangers outside the embassy, shivering under a light mist in mid-December. She stood tall and imposing as we waited outside, and I remember hesitating to go over to introduce myself. But I couldn't help being drawn to her; even then, something felt inevitable. Like we were destined to be in each other's lives one way or another. 

"Do you ever worry about how we're going to return to our lives at home?", she asked me one day in March, sharing her umbrella as we walked through the 5th arrondissement.  

"All the time", I chuckle. "That's all I can think about."

"Home is never going to be the same anymore, right?" 

She nods. "I already miss this, even as we're still living it", she trails on. I slow my pace so we'll both stay dry under the flower umbrella she thrifted the first time we went shopping together.  

"I know I really should be living in the moment, though", she frowns, like she can't fully accept what she's saying. 

Her words linger as an echo in my brain I can't shake. I try to brush them off, but I feel it too. This was all slipping away before I was ready to let go. 

Now, she sleeps. With the tension in her face softened, she looks so much younger, like the weight of her pain can finally be put to rest. She's always been running – there's always something to chase, something to outrun. The crinkles on her jacket press lines into her smooth cheek and I want to reach over to smooth them away, if only to ease the burden she carries.

11:43 pm. The train sighs to a slow, reluctant stop in Bordeaux. I'm not sure why, maybe a refuelling stop? For a moment, everything is suspended. The world outside holds its breath, waiting, just like me. No one seems to notice this sudden stillness, except for him. 

He's been dozing next to me for the last hour, but now, he stirs. Blinking sleep from his bleary eyes, he stretches like a spoiled cat. I catch him staring at me and my rhythmic typing slows. He's still in a daze, that semi-conscious state of dream-like reality. Our eyes meet in the dim light, and for a brief moment, I know he feels the same way I do. 

I offer him one of my AirPods, a silent invitation. He accepts wordlessly. For the next hour, we share music as I delay his chase for sleep and he delays my struggle to study. Under the cover of night, a quiet comfort settles between us. There's a veil draped over us – one presence anchoring the other, even as we keep our distance. We share these stolen moments, never to be acknowledged in daylight. By morning, he won't remember any of this, and I'll pretend to forget. Or maybe neither of us is brave enough to address anything more. 

 

Out of nowhere, his voice cuts through the silence. "Time's almost up, you know."

I blink, caught off guard. "We still have 8 hours until we reach Paris", I tease, trying to lighten the mood.  

He rolls his eyes, "You know that's not what I mean." 

"We only have 5 weeks left before you leave", he says. I could almost mistake it as wistful, if I dared to believe it. He doesn't know that I started the countdown ages ago, just that I was too afraid to admit it. 

I hesitate. "Why do you talk like we'll never see each other again? We're still going to see each other at home, right?" 

His gaze drifts towards the messy streaks of rain on the window. 

"Maybe. We'll see."

His casual shrug can't hide the weight of his words, and there's an undeniable pang in my chest as it settles in. Before I can respond, he reaches out, fingertips brushing against my cheek as he tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear. It's too soft, too fleeting. 

"Of course we'll see each other again," he adds. 

Do I let myself believe it? 

He turns away to catch some sleep. Just in time, the train starts rattling on again. 

2:39 am. I keep trying to focus, but the words on my screen are starting to blur together. With a soft thud, I shut my laptop and press my cheek against the cold glass. We speed past patches of trees so dense, I have to squint to make out the houses tucked away behind them. I pull my hoodie over my head and shut my eyes, but sleep doesn't come. The words I've left unsaid sit heavily on my chest. She's still curled up in her seat, brows furrowed. He's finally drifted off, hands resting loosely on his lap. 

Somehow I know, things will never be the same again. There's a distinct sense of finality in the air, like we're approaching the ending of our story together. I am already grieving this night, this moment that we'll never have again. But there's solace in the quiet; if I sit still long enough, I'm sure I can make this moment last forever. 

We never just existed together – we lived. And deep in my heart, I'll always have so much fondness for them. Like melting butter on a warming pan, they've made so many moments special without even knowing. 

6.33 am. I catch a glimpse of the egg-yolk sun resting comfortably on the horizon, and it feels like I'm being pulled from a long dream. In thirty minutes, we reach Paris. In thirty minutes, our journey ends. In thirty minutes, we return to a world that is no longer just ours. 

I glance at them, a soft light cast on their sleeping faces. Do they know that we're almost there? Do they know that everything will change once we step off this train? 

I close my eyes, pretending I can freeze time. But the train keeps moving.