Life was choking me. Same old days, same battles in my head — me against me. I was tired, fed up, and done. I needed out. So, I said, enough, I’m going to Shimla, to my brother. I booked tickets — Lucknow to Chandigarh first, then Kalka to Shimla on that toy train. No straight ride from Lucknow, just a jumbled mess of travel. Lucknow to Chandigarh by train, then an auto to Kalka, then the toy train. I didn’t care. I’d make it work.
At Lucknow Charbagh station, I stood there, earphones jammed in, drowning out the noise. You know how it is in India — keep your head down on journeys and stay inside yourself. Being too loud, too open, it’s a risk. People can take advantage, judge you, whatever. I waited 30 minutes, the platform alive — hawkers shouting, kids running, that constant hum of chaos. My train came a night one — my kind. Sleep through the dark and wake up ready. I found my seat, curled up like a kid, and let the train’s sway pull me under.
The next morning, Chandigarh hit me — groggy, stiff, but alive. I dragged myself out and grabbed an auto to Kalka. The air got cooler, and sharper, like it was waking me up. At Kalka station, I waited for the toy train to Shimla, ticket clutched in my hand. I was still tired, still carrying that frustration from back home, but the mountains — they felt like a promise. Something better. Then she walked in, and God, everything turned upside down.
She stepped onto the platform, and it was like she’d slipped out of some dream I didn’t know I had. The hills framed her — green and misty — but she was the only thing clear. Her eyes, man, they were huge, warm, like they could hold every broken piece of me and not flinch. A perfect Pahadi girl, like the mountains made her just for that moment. Her silver earrings swung as she moved, catching the sun, flashing like little stars. She had on a kurti — soft, with those gentle designs — and jeans, like she was part old India, part new, and it fit her so right. My breath just stopped. I couldn’t stop staring.
She sat on a bench nearby, waiting like me, a stack of books in her lap. I watched her — her fingers brushing the pages, her hair falling loose, dark against her skin. My earphones were off now, dangling around my neck, forgotten. I didn’t care if she saw me staring. She was all I could see, all I wanted to see. The station faded — the hills, the people, the noise. Just her.
Then she looked up. Her eyes caught mine and held them. My heart slammed against my ribs. She got up, walked over, books hugged to her chest, and stood there, looking right into me. “Do we know each other?” she asked. Her voice was soft, like a secret whispered just for me, and it broke something open inside.
“No,” I said, but my head was screaming, I don’t know you, but I want to, I need to. My tongue tripped over itself. “I was… I was looking at your books. They’re nice. You read a lot?” Lame, I know, but it was all I could get out.
She smiled — just a little, but it hit me like sunlight. “Yeah, they keep me company,” she said, holding them tighter like they were old friends.
An announcement cut through — train leaving in half an hour, take your seats. I stood, legs shaky, and went to my reserved spot in the coach. She stayed back, waiting for the general bogie to open. Locals don’t book seats, right? They just pile in, and that coach — it gets suffocating, all sweat and elbows. I saw her on the bench, our eyes locked again, stuck on each other. That look — it’s burned into me, like a photo I’ll never lose. I couldn’t sit still. I got off my coach, walked to a tea stall near her, and ordered a chai. Kept stealing glances. A station guy came, unlocked her bogie, and she started to move toward it. My chest tightened — panic, ache, something. I couldn’t let her go. “Wait,” I called, louder than I meant. “You can sit with me. I’ve got space.”
She stopped, turned, and that smile came back — bright, real, like I’d given her something big. “Okay,” she said, and she chose me. Chose to come with me. I didn’t ask where she was headed. Didn’t need to. Her being there, next to me — that was it. For the first time in forever, I wasn’t running, wasn’t fighting. I was just there, alive, wanting that moment to stretch out and never end.
We got on, and sat together, the train clattering to life. She started talking — about her books, the hills, the little things she loved. Her voice was like a song, soft and flowing, and those earrings — they danced as she moved, teasing me. I didn’t say much. Couldn’t. I just listened, soaked her in — her shoulder brushing mine, her warmth so close. The frustration I’d carried from Lucknow. Gone. She washed it away. I wanted the train to slow, to break down even, just to keep her there. It was short, too short, but it was everything — pure, alive, mine.
Then Kandaghat came. She grabbed her books and stood up. “This is me,” she said, her voice quieter now, like it hurt to say. My chest split open — sharp, heavy pain. She stepped off, and I saw it in her eyes — same hurt, same pull like she didn’t want to leave either. We didn’t say goodbye. Couldn’t. We just stood there, eyes locked, holding onto each other with that look until the train jerked forward and she slipped away, lost in the crowd.
I made it to Shimla, to my brother’s place, but she didn’t leave me. She’s still here, in me. That choice I made — calling her over, giving her my seat — wasn’t just a seat. It was me choosing her, choosing to feel something real, even for a second. And she chose me back, didn’t she? Life’s like that — just choices, one after another, piling up into who we are. I chose to escape that day, chose to look at her, chose to speak. And now, every year, I choose to come back — Lucknow to Chandigarh, Kalka to Shimla, that same damn train — hoping I’ll see her again. Not just to find her, but to find that me again, the one who felt alive in her shadow.
Maybe she’s out there, living her life, making her own choices. Maybe she remembers me, maybe she doesn’t. But me? I’m stuck on her — those eyes, that voice, that moment. Life’s a chain of decisions, and she’s the one I’ll never unpick. She’s my what-if, my almost, my forever in a flash. I keep coming back, not because I think she’ll be there, but because I need to feel that ache — to know I’m human, to know I can still choose to hope, even when it hurts. We’re all just the sum of what we dare to reach for, and she’s the piece of me I’ll never stop reaching for, the one that taught me living isn’t in the years, but in the seconds that break your heart open and leave you whole.