Not Yet

The train moves forward, steady and calm.

I watch the passengers with distant interest. The woman across from me wears a coat with sharp shoulder pads, the kind from old photographs. Beside her, a man scrolls through a phone that's too thick, too blue. Two seats down, someone reads a newspaper dated three weeks from now.

I observe these things the way you might observe clouds. Curious. Unbothered.

The routine protects me. I track stops. I read signage. The train moves, and I move with it. There's no effort in that. My attention stays light, never landing anywhere it might ask something of me.

Everything is fine.

A woman moves down the aisle with the same distant calm I've been feeling. The conductor appears beside her, gestures toward the empty seat next to me with a gentle smile. She sits without questioning.

The moment she does, something cracks.

In both of us.

I turn, and her face breaks through the calm like cold water. She looks terrified. Actually terrified. Her eyes are sharp, present, alive in a way that makes everyone else on the train look half-asleep.

My chest tightens.

The wrongness floods in all at once. The coat. The phone. The newspaper. Things I was noticing but not feeling.

Something's wrong with the train.

"You see it now," she gasps, and I realize she's just woken up too. Not a question. A shared horror.

I try to speak, but my throat is tight. I nod instead.

She's older than me. Maybe fifty. I'm just past thirty. But the way she looks at me feels like recognition, like we've stood in this exact moment before and I've somehow forgotten.

The twenty-year gap should feel wrong. It doesn't. It feels like math that doesn't add up right.

"How long have you been here?" she asks.

"I don't know."

"Do you remember boarding?"

I try. The memory feels distant, wrapped in cotton. "No."

"You were calm," she says. "Before I sat down. I felt it when I touched the seat. We were both... gone."

She's right. I wasn't afraid. The realization makes my hands shake.

"What happened to me?"

"The same thing that happened to them." She gestures at the other passengers. The teenage girl slumped against the window, breathing slow and even. The man with the ancient phone, scrolling without seeing. "You stopped being afraid. You stopped questioning."

"When?"

"I don't know. But you're awake now." Her voice softens. "Stay with me. Don't let it take you back."

The train slows. An announcement crackles through the speakers, words I can't quite parse, and the doors open.

A man stands. He's wearing a suit with a thin tie, the kind from old movies, and he moves toward the doors like someone walking through water. Slow. Disconnected.

The platform beyond looks wrong. The lighting is too warm, too soft. The signs are painted metal, not digital screens. Everything feels decades out of step.

He pauses at the threshold, and for just a second, his face clears. Confusion. Fear. His mouth opens like he's about to speak.

Then the conductor appears.

I didn't see him board. Didn't hear him approach. He's just there, standing beside the man, one hand resting gently on his shoulder.

The conductor is tall, wearing a uniform that doesn't match any era I recognize. His face is kind. Deeply, impossibly kind.

"Not yet," he says softly.

The man's fear drains away. His shoulders relax. He turns from the doors and walks back to his seat, eyes distant and calm.

The doors close.

The train moves on.

"Did you see that?" I ask, pulse hammering.

She nods, breathing shallow. "I was like you. Calm. Not caring." Her voice shakes. "Then I sat down and we..." She gestures between us. "We woke each other up."

"What does he do?"

"I don't know. But I remember being calm before. I remember not questioning anything." She looks at me, eyes sharp with fear. "I think we've both been here longer than we know."

The woman across from us stands suddenly, moving toward the doors before the announcement even finishes. The platform beyond flickers into view, fluorescent lights humming, linoleum floors scuffed but intact. Nineties, maybe early two-thousands.

She steps off without hesitation.

The doors close.

The train moves.

I expect someone to comment. No one does. The man with the brick phone keeps scrolling. The teenager stays slumped, breathing slow.

"They're all asleep," I whisper.

"Not asleep," she says. "Waiting."

"For what?"

"I don't know."

The train hums beneath us. I try to remember boarding. Try to remember where I was before this. The memories feel thin, like something I read rather than lived.

An old man sits three rows ahead, same seat he's been in since... I don't know. Since always. His jacket is wrong too, cut from another decade, fabric worn thin at the elbows. He watches the signage overhead with the patience of someone who's been watching it for years.

The conductor appears beside him.

I didn't see him move.

The old man doesn't react. Doesn't flinch. Just keeps watching the signs like the conductor isn't there.

The conductor leans down, says something I can't hear.

The old man nods slowly.

Then the conductor straightens and turns.

He looks directly at me.

My breath stops.

He walks toward us, unhurried, and every instinct in my body screams to run. But there's nowhere to go. The train is moving. The doors are closed.

He stops beside our seat.

Up close, his face is even kinder. Gentle. Concerned.

"You're troubled," he says quietly.

It's not a question.

I want to answer. Want to ask him what's happening, where we are, why nothing makes sense. But the woman beside me takes my hand.

Her grip is tight. Grounding. My hand feels lighter in hers, like something heavy has lifted from my joints.

"We're fine," she says.

The conductor looks at her, then at our joined hands, and something shifts in his expression. Not anger. Something closer to understanding. His eyes flick between our faces, measuring something I can't see.

"You're afraid," he says. "I can help with that."

"We don't want help," she says.

He studies us for a long moment. Then he nods, just once, and steps back.

"Not yet," he says.

He turns and walks away, and I realize I'm shaking.

"What just happened?" I whisper.

"He wanted to calm you down. Make you like them." She gestures at the other passengers, all sitting peaceful and still. "If we let him, we'll stop being afraid. We'll stop trying to leave."

"Maybe that's better," I say, and mean it. The fear is exhausting. The confusion is worse.

"No," she says firmly. "It's not."

The next stop comes fast.

A couple across the aisle straightens suddenly. They move as a unit, adjusted to each other's rhythm, and something about them pulls at my chest. Like looking in a mirror that shows the wrong reflection.

The smell of sawdust. I don't know why I think of that.

The man's collar is buttoned all the way up, formal in a way that feels out of time. The woman's bag is structured leather, old-fashioned but well-kept.

They talk quietly, and I catch fragments. Planning. Hoping. Waiting for the right moment.

"We're close," the woman says to her partner. "I can feel it."

He nods, but his eyes keep darting to the doors.

The announcement begins. Faint at first, then clear.

The woman straightens. "Now," she says, standing. "Hurry."

The man stands, but slower. Uncertain.

The doors open.

The platform beyond is sharp, precise. Modern. The lighting is clean, the signs are digital.

She steps forward, already committed.

"Come on," she says, urgency rising.

He reaches the threshold just as the conductor appears.

One hand on his shoulder.

"Not yet," the conductor says gently.

The man's face goes slack. The fear drains from his eyes.

He steps back from the doors.

"Wait," the woman says from the platform, voice breaking. "No, wait, please."

The doors close.

The train moves.

She's gone.

The man stands there for three full seconds, staring at where she was. Then he turns and sits down, face empty, and the seat beside him stays vacant.

I watch his hand move to the armrest where hers would have been.

It stays there.

He presses down, like he can still feel the weight.

The woman beside me is gripping my hand so tight it hurts.

But my knuckles don't ache the way they did before she sat down. If anything, they feel smooth. New.

"That's what happens," she whispers. "That's how it breaks."

"The conductor stopped him."

"The conductor saved him," she says, voice shaking. "He wasn't ready. Not completely. If he'd left like that, unprepared..." She swallows. "I stood on a platform for hours, unable to move. That's what happens when you leave before you're ready. The conductor spared him that."

"But she's gone."

"She was ready. He wasn't. And now he never will be." Her grip tightens. "If we let the conductor calm us, we'll stop trying. We'll just... wait. Forever."

"What if that's better?" I ask again. "What if we're supposed to wait?"

"No." She turns to me, eyes fierce. "We're supposed to be ready. There's a difference."

The old man hasn't moved. Hasn't looked up. His hand rests on his armrest, a wedding band worn smooth from decades of turning.

"How long has he been here?" I ask.

"Long enough to forget why he got on."

The thought terrifies me more than anything else so far.

The next stop announces itself too early.

The chime comes before the train has fully slowed, and several passengers stand automatically. But when the doors open, the platform beyond looks unfinished. The lighting doesn't reach the corners. The far end fades into nothing.

No one moves.

The doors stay open for five full seconds.

Then they close, and the train accelerates.

"That wasn't real," I say.

"It was real for someone," she replies. "Just not for us."

"How do you know?"

"I don't." She looks at me. "But I know it's not right yet. I can feel it."

Blue walls. The thought comes from nowhere, sharp and clear. Light blue.

The conductor appears again.

This time he doesn't approach. He just stands at the front of the car, watching us.

I meet his eyes and see no malice there. No threat. Just that same impossible kindness.

"Why is he doing this?" I whisper.

"I don't know. But I think he's trying to help."

"By keeping us here?"

"By keeping us calm until we're ready." She squeezes my hand. "But we're not like them. We need to stay awake."

The next announcement comes clear and clean.

Every syllable lands perfectly. No distortion. No echo.

We both feel it.

"That's it," she says.

"How do you know?"

"I just do."

We stand together, not a second apart.

Standing this close, I feel like I'm shedding something. Weight I didn't know I was carrying. Years, maybe.

The train slows.

The conductor steps forward, moving between us and the doors.

"Are you certain?" he asks. His voice is gentle. Not threatening. Genuinely asking.

"Yes," she says.

"You'll have to face everything you've been avoiding. All the fear. All the pain of waiting. Are you ready for that?"

I can almost taste coffee. Early morning. Someone saying my name softly, like a question.

I look at her. She looks at me.

"Together," I say.

The conductor studies us for a long moment. Then he steps aside.

"Then go," he says.

The doors open.

The platform beyond is fully rendered. Seamless concrete. Light that reaches every corner. The air is clearer than anything I've breathed in... I don't know how long.

We step through together.

The moment our feet touch the platform, something shifts.

My hands smooth. The ache in my lower back disappears. My shoulders feel lighter, straighter.

"Oh," she says, voice breaking.

I look up.

She's young. Twenty, maybe twenty-one. Her face has lost decades in an instant.

"You too," she whispers, looking at me.

The doors close behind us with a soft, final sound.

And then the memories come.

Not gentle or gradual.

All at once.

I'm twenty-two, standing in our apartment. The bookshelf I built leans against the wall, waiting to be mounted. Sawdust still on my hands. She's across from me, eyes red from crying.

"I can't do this if you're not sure."

And I am sure. I am. But I'm terrified of what it means to say yes to everything all at once. To marriage. To permanence. To building a life with someone when I barely know how to build my own.

"I need more time," I say.

"I don't have more time. I need to know now."

And instead of saying yes, instead of saying I'm scared but I want this, I say nothing.

She leaves.

I let her.

And that's the moment. That's when everything that should have happened stopped happening.

The memory shifts forward. Years blurring past.

Ten years for me. Thirty for her. Different paths. Different attempts to move on. Different failures.

And then, one day, a train.

I don't remember deciding to board. I just felt called to it. Like something was waiting. Like I'd been incomplete for so long and this was the first thing that felt right.

She felt it too. Thirty years after walking away. The pull. The knowing.

We both got on.

I gasp, doubling over.

She's crying. Actually crying. Her hands cover her face and I know she's seeing it too. Her version. The same moment from her side. The same mistake.

"I should have waited," she says through her tears. "I should have given you time."

"I should have been ready," I say. "I should have said yes."

We stand there, both of us twenty again, both of us remembering the same moment we threw everything away because the timing was wrong.

Behind us, through the train window, the conductor stands in the doorway.

He's smiling. Not triumph. Relief.

"He put us together," I say, understanding flooding through me. "He sat us next to each other."

She looks back, sees him. "He knew."

The conductor nods once, then places his hand over his heart.

Then he steps back into the train.

I catch a glimpse of the old man through the window. Still seated. Still watching the signage. His hand on the armrest, wedding band catching the light.

The conductor moves to stand beside him, one hand resting gently on his shoulder. The old man doesn't look up. Doesn't react. Just keeps watching the signs, lost in a peace that will never end.

"He chose to stay calm," she says softly. "He chose to never feel the pain."

"So he'll never leave."

"Never."

The train begins to move.

I want to call out to the old man. Want to tell him to wake up, to try again, to fight. But the conductor looks at me through the window and slowly shakes his head.

Not ready. May never be.

The train slides away into nothing, and we're standing alone on the platform.

She takes my hand.

"Do you remember what we were supposed to build?" I ask.

"Thirty years," she says, looking at her young hands. Marveling. "I waited thirty years before I got on the train."

"Ten for me," I say, understanding flooding through. "I gave up faster."

"Or I was more stubborn." She smiles through tears. "Either way, the train held us until we were both ready."

She squeezes tight. "The bookshelf. The apartment we picked out together. The life we were going to share."

"We were supposed to paint the bedroom blue," I say, and I don't know why this detail matters but it does. "You wanted blue. I wanted gray. We were going to compromise."

"Light blue," she says, smiling through tears. "We decided on light blue."

"We never painted it."

"No."

"We could now."

She looks at me. Really looks. Twenty years old and finally, finally ready.

"We could," she says.

We turn away from where the train was.

The path ahead continues forward. No signs. No schedule.

Just a direction.

We walk on.

The train does not return.