Love between stations

 

The 8:23 Churchgate local was always the same—

a blur of elbows, earphones, and tired eyes.
But that morning, something shifted in the hum of the train.

Aditya boarded from Borivali, clutching his backpack like every other day. The metal floor trembled beneath his shoes, the air thick with perfume, sweat, and half-finished dreams. He found a spot near the door—his daily seat, though it was only space.

At Andheri, she entered.
Meera.

Her dupatta brushed against his arm like a whisper of sea breeze sneaking into the compartments. She looked ordinary-hair tied loosely, earphones tangled like poetry in motion. But her eyes carried something different: the quiet kind of strength that comes from knowing Mumbai too well—its rush, its rain, its heartbreaks.

Every day after that, it became a rhythm.
Aditya at Borivali.
Meera at Andheri.
A shared journey till Dadar.

Sometimes, their eyes met in the reflection of the window—two faces layered over the passing skyline. Sometimes, words weren’t needed. The whistle, the screech, the push of the crowd—all became background music to their silent connection.

One day, the train stalled between stations—Monsoon mischief. The lights flickered, the rain drummed on the roof like impatient fingers. People groaned. But in that suspended moment, when time slowed and the city held its breath, Meera turned to him and smiled.

“Everyone thinks Mumbai would stop for no one,” she said, “and yet… here we are.”

He smiled back. “Maybe it stopped for us.”

The city raced, but their moments slowed down—
a shared look, a half-smile, a reflection in the train window that felt like something beginning.

When the train started again, something within both of them did too.

After that day, they stood closer. Spoke softly. Shared tea at Dadar when trains ran late. And somewhere between two stations—neither beginning nor end—they found a kind of love only Mumbai trains could teach:
the magic of meeting in motion,
and the beauty of holding on in a crowd that never stops moving.

Six months later. it was Mumbai winter—the kind where mornings are softer, and the sea breeze smells a little kinder.

Aditya now takes the morning slow local. Not because he likes it, but because she does.
Every day, they stand near the door together—Meera with her earphones, Aditya with his coffee flask. They talk less now, not out of distance, but comfort. When words aren’t needed, silence becomes its own language.

Between Bandra and Dadar, they’ve built a world—small, suspended, perfectly theirs.

But life, like trains, has its own timetable.

One morning, Aditya was early.

8:15 a.m. — platform 3, Borivali. The smell of wet tracks mixed with vada pav and impatience.

He boarded the 8:23, same coach, same side near the door. The compartments rattled to life, people pouring in like every other day.

At Andheri, the doors opened.
Crowd rushed in.
He looked up.

No Meera.

He told himself maybe she missed this one. Maybe she’d take the 8:29, by then Her absence started to echo louder than her presence ever did.

A week passed with Aditya shuttling between the stations , and a week later suddenly his eyes caught a glimpse of her ,there she was.Same navy-blue kurta. Same calm smile. Sitting by the window, reading her book.

He froze for a second, then smiled and walked up.

“Missed your trains this week,” he said softly. Meera looked different.

She nodded, smiling. “Changed routes to break the routine,but guess the city didn’t forget us after all.” A bit quiet, eyes holding something she hadn’t said yet.

“I got transferred,” she said finally, looking at her phone instead of him.
“Delhi branch. Next month.”

The train rattled on.
Announcements blurred. The sound of steel against track felt too loud.

He smiled faintly. “That’s great, Meera. You always wanted change.”
She nodded, smiled back—but both knew, some changes feel heavier than they sound.

For the next few weeks, they still met.
Shared cutting chai. Missed trains on purpose. Talked about everything except the goodbye waiting at the platform’s end.

And then, her last day came.

They stood at Churchgate as the crowd scattered around them. The sky was pale, the city half-awake.

“So this is it?” he asked, trying to sound casual.

She shrugged softly. “Trains will still run. You’ll still be here.”
He chuckled. “Yeah, but maybe a part of me will be catching a Delhi metro every morning.”

She laughed, then reached out and adjusted the collar of his shirt — the smallest, simplest touch.
The announcement echoed overhead. Her train.

“See you,” she said.
“See you,” he replied.

And she was gone.

Aditya stood there till her train became a silver line disappearing into the morning. The city moved again, like nothing had changed.

He boarded his usual local back home. The same route. The same crowd. But now, every station held a memory — a moment frozen between rails.

He looked out of the window and smiled.
Because sometimes in life, love doesn’t end.
It just changes trains..!