Before the
Automatic Doors
some loves
Breathe by
There is a particular kind of quiet that settles over a street when two people are walking toward an end they have already agreed upon, though neither has spoken it aloud. The damp asphalt beneath our boots seemed to stretch out, catching the reflections of shop signs that had gone dark hours ago. I found myself counting the exact number of cracks in the pavement, knowing that in a short while, I would have to pivot and trace this exact route backward, alone.
I decided, quite consciously, to fix my attention on the physical rhythm of our walk rather than the departure board waiting ahead. You had always taken slightly longer strides than I expected, and I spent those blocks subtly shifting my weight to keep our shoulders aligned. As we passed beneath the amber streetlamps, the light caught the loose strands of your hair, turning them briefly into bright threads against the evening.
I did not point this out to you. I simply watched the way the glow illuminated the side of your face for a brief second before gently throwing you back into the shadow.
We are often told that the attachments we form are entirely of our own making, that we build the roads and steer ourselves toward whomever we choose. Yet, matching my steps to yours, I could not help but feel we were merely obeying a momentum set in motion long before we met.
The fluorescent glare of the station entrance began to spill onto the street, casting long, pale shadows ahead of us. I kept my right hand buried deep in my coat pocket, where the dark fabric had grown thick with accumulated heat. Without realizing it, I had curled my fingers inward, holding onto nothing but the heavy air inside the lining, my knuckles pressing hard against my thigh.
As the automatic doors slid open, letting out a rush of stale, heated air from the terminal, I focused on the stiff joints of my hand. One by one, slowly and deliberately, I let my fingers loosen, feeling the heat dissipate into the sudden cold draft.
The walk back under the same lamps
The train doors closed with a dull thud, sliding a thick pane of glass between my world and the one you were now moving toward. I waited on the platform until the last carriage disappeared into the tunnel, leaving behind only the metallic screech of the tracks settling back into silence.
Stepping out of the station, the street looked entirely different, though not a single brick had moved. The pavement was entirely empty now, and the night air seemed to find every gap in my clothes. I began tracing our footsteps backward, taking care to place my boots on the exact spots we had just walked, my hand resting loosely in my pocket, holding onto the warmth that was already beginning to fade.
Tickets for the return journey
Ocie Elliott — The Reckless
The street behind me stretched on, and I kept walking without looking back, placing each boot down with a care I could not entirely explain.
boygenius — Cool About It
We said everything except the one thing, and the cold air between us held it there, patient and unhurried, all the way to the station doors.
Hazlett — Blame The Moon
Back inside, the room was exactly as I had left it, and the pale light coming through the window was the only thing that seemed to know I had returned.
Andy Shauf — Wasted On You
I retraced every step, but the pavement gave nothing back — only the faint impression of two pairs of boots that had already moved on.
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