I had been on the train for what felt like an hour—or perhaps quite a bit less. The motion of it snaking across the country was making me seasick. The time lapse between the front of the train and where I sat gave me the sense that I was being pulled down the track against my will, rather than riding on top of it. The brightly lit corridor ahead showed me what motion would arrive at my section.

My seat, dusty and stale, was only comfortable for about the first four or five minutes, so I shifted around, constantly. I felt guilty about putting my feet on the seat opposite, somewhere in my head, but as always, I ignored it and put my feet up. Resting the heels of my shoes on the tip of the seat as if to come to some sort of moral compromise. When I find myself littering, spitting or just generally being anti-social the same anecdote always arrives in my mind.  A tourist was about to jaywalk in Japan on an empty street when suddenly an old man appeared from nowhere stopping them before proclaiming, in perfect English, “The downfall of society always starts with the individual”.  Funny really, seeing as I had even sat in the four seats for this exact purpose despite there being many tens of single seats free. In fact, every seat on the train was free. Still, I had sat in the four-seater so as to rest my feet on the perch in front of me. Prepared to risk the anxiety of feeling a little bad about it and worse, someone sitting opposite me—a thought not worth lingering on.

Usually, I would have stared out of the window, but as it was night, only my reflection looked back at me. Once, as a younger, vainer man, I might have been interested. Now, I caught a glimpse, then looked away—partly from the disappointment of my older, softer face, partly from boredom. Seeing that face for 28 years had been more than enough. Some days I had caught a moment where I looked how I thought I did in my head, but if I looked for too long it had faded and been replaced with the reality of the situation. I do not need to look at myself and know who it was that I really am - not today, anyway, another, perhaps. 

I pulled out my phone and stared blankly at the black mirror before catching my eye and clicking it on. All the information in the world, carefully collected, arranged and curated for my unique consumption, is right at my fingertips. I couldn't think of a single thing worth reading. Typical. I’d had enough of feeling bad about my own life for one day. Seeing those who had committed to the life I wanted and smugly curated it online—carefree, unemployed, roaming the countryside was too much to bear. No. Today, I would not indulge in that particular form of habitual self-harm.

Enough of that was already running through my mind—remnants of the weekend I'd just lived, and the abuse I’d put my body through. It had felt so sweet as it always did, now I had felt tired and defeated. Balance, I told myself. Balance was what I needed. But even that thought felt tedious now. Once, it had offered hope—proof that I could be in control. Now it only left me feeling deflated.

It had been on a train journey just like this one that I’d once resigned myself to the fact that I must live with myself forever. How disappointing.

We arrived at the first stop. The doors slid open and a cold gust blew some other passengers in. An elderly man sat a few seats ahead. I couldn't see him directly, so I watched him through his reflection in the window. Deep tan, deep wrinkles, heavy eyes. He breathed loudly. His cane rested against the seat, but as the train jolted forward, it slid and fell to the floor. 

Another silent moral dilemma.

I shifted slightly as if preparing to help him. Probably better I let him get it, I told myself in an instant. He had puffed and wheezed and picked it up, breathing heavily at the effort. I told myself it was probably better that way. Better than me clumsily reaching out of it as he does knocking heads, the look of shock on his face thinking who is this man stealing my cane?! My heart rate quickened—another jolt of anxiety from the weekend’s excesses.

What kind of person doesn't help an old man with his stick?

Not even the unbearably nice cliché of a person. Hardly a person at all.

Enough of that, I muttered almost aloud. It was just the lack of sleep making me feel like this, I told myself. But I knew the truth: I had always been this way.

Despite there only being the old man in my vision I can feel some other passengers behind me. There’s a young boy and a girl who are speaking loudly, this is how I know how old they are. 

I tune into the conversation as I always do when there is one to be heard. He is not pleased with a friend of his and is looking for sympathy from his companion. She doesn't feel the same way and does not seem to be giving him the satisfaction that he is in the right. I take a glance to put a face to the voices I can hear and make a moment of eye contact with the boy. Fuuck. He does not seem to even notice and continues about his hardships. He’s wearing an expensive tracksuit and pearl white trainers. The girl is more or less matching him. Hearing the boy speak reminds me of myself, as all young men do. The slight desperation for validation from the girl makes me tense, how embarrassing it is to be alive.

The train slows down as we approach the next stop, a plastic bottle continues forward, clattering into some seats, breaking the relative quiet of my section. I could put it in the bin. We have arrived at our next stop. The chatty duo leave the train and no one else gets on as far as I can see. As we pull out of the station we pass them again allowing me another look. The boy is more animated than ever but now I can’t hear his words, the girl looks bored with it.

I close my eyes for a moment, maybe I could sleep. The movement of the train could be felt as a gentle rocking I think, but no not for me, it is nauseating. Reluctantly I open my eyes or risk being sick all over my beloved four-seater. 

The bright LED lights overhead are bringing my headache back. I looked around my bag to see if I had the foresight to pack some water. Of course I did not, I am not that person.

I look at my phone again, this time I doom scroll for a bit, seeing nothing. The nausea comes back so I pocket my phone and look up again. The old man is sleeping now, and I wonder if his day was hard. Where did he come from? Perhaps he too had a big weekend reliving his teenage years and making small talk about big subjects as I did. Or perhaps he had a small perfect weekend of reflection and satisfaction. I can only guess.

We rattled into the second station. The old man got off, helped by a woman in a high-vis jacket. She smiled warmly at him. They moved slowly, disappearing into the freezing night. I had the urge to step off too, but the doors shut before I could even think seriously about it. I was going wherever the train decided now.

I checked my phone again. No messages, no calls. Just that endless parade of information, ready to be weaponized against my mood. I locked the screen and dropped it on the seat beside me. I leaned my head back and closed my eyes. The carriage clattered on through the night.

Sleep didn't come.

It wasn't a problem of comfort or noise, not even the slight lingering high still buzzing through my bloodstream.  It was that particular kind of exhaustion that left you too tired even to sleep, where thoughts refuse to settle and your blood feels too fast inside you.

The train slowed again. Third stop.

Through heavy eyelids, I watched a man step aboard, carrying a battered briefcase. He moved stiffly, as though the cold had set into his bones. He sat two rows behind me. I could feel his presence even without looking.

It was odd, the feeling of being watched in an otherwise empty carriage. Maybe he wasn't even looking at me. But still, I felt it—the way you feel a static charge before a storm. 

I stayed still, pretending to sleep. Pretending that is, to myself as much as to the outside world. 

A few minutes passed. Maybe more.

Then—footsteps. Moving slowly down the aisle toward me.

My heart beat faster, each step louder than the last.

I opened my eyes just enough to see him.

The man had stopped a few rows away, facing the window. He wasn’t looking at me after all.

He just stood there, staring out into the blackness, briefcase dangling from his hand.

I let out a shaky breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

When the train jolted into motion again, he stumbled slightly, caught himself, and then wandered back to his seat behind me.

I didn't dare move.

I stayed still, waiting for the anxiety to drain out of my limbs. It never fully did.

The stops came and went, empty platforms flashing past like abandoned memories.

Eventually, the man with the briefcase stood and left. No glance toward me. No acknowledgement that I even existed.

I was alone again.

I thought about moving seats but couldn't summon the will. I stayed in my stale corner, surrounded by the ghosts of those who had sat there before me. I liked to imagine them—people on their way to jobs, to lovers, to funerals. All those tiny stories, passing through.

The rocking of the train had started to feel less sickening now. Maybe it was resignation. Maybe it was exhaustion finally overtaking me. I let my head loll against the cold window. It vibrated softly against my skull.

I wondered what stop I would get off at.

Maybe I'd just stay on, riding back and forth until morning, never really arriving anywhere. Better than walking out into the cold, anyway.

Somewhere ahead, the carriage door clattered open.

The air shifted again, colder, sharper.

Another passenger?

This time, I didn’t turn to look. Instead, I just closed my eyes, tighter than before. It was easier that way. The train carried me on, through the blackness, into whatever waited at the end of the line.

.