I boarded the train, soaked, hair plastered to my forehead. Sliding into a seat, I watched raindrops chase each other down the fogged window before resting my head against it. My eyes traced the blurred city lights as the train lumbered forward. I closed my eyes, and my best friend Violet’s voice cut through my thoughts.
“You are falling in love with him.”
“No, I’m not,” I murmured, clinging to the dark behind my eyelids.
The train jolted, yanking me back. A mechanical voice drifted through the carriage: You have arrived at Rouge Hill station. Three more stops to reach Oshawa Station.
I peeked through the window. Rouge Hill beach stretched beside Lake Ontario, waves glimmering with the strawberry moon’s reflection.
“What are you thinking?”
“Nothing,” I shrugged.
“You are falling in love with him, Kayra,” Violet said again.
“Why do you say that?” I ask.
“The amount of time he spends in your thoughts,” she laughed.
I laughed too. “Is it hormones, or is it love?”
“You tell me,” she went on. “Could be both. But surely there’s something more.”
I went quiet, letting the hum of the train fill the silence. Then, softly, I asked, “Vi… am I scared to fall in love?”
“Could be,” she said. “It is scary, girl.”
“But what about him? Does he feel the same way?” The question wasn’t really for her—it darted from somewhere inside me.
You can’t make people love you the way you want to be loved, I tell myself.
I backtracked immediately and fixed the sentence in my head: You can’t make people love you.
Forget about the “the way you want” part.
“It’s definitely hormones,” I told her, my voice firm, shaking my head.
“As you say, girl,” Violet said.
The train started rolling again, and I remembered the first day I met him in the subway station. I was lost. I’d never used the subway before in Toronto. The funny thing is, I thought it was a bus stop, not a subway station—I misread Google Maps. I stood there dumbfounded when I saw the escalators leading down. I looked around and then saw him entering the station, wearing a black tee and denim pants.
At first, I was hesitant to talk to him, but I summoned my courage. I have a fear of talking to random strangers.
“Excuse me! Is this a subway station?”
“Yes,” he replied without looking at me. He was busy swiping his card through the machine.
I felt helpless. I needed to reach Union Station by 6 p.m.; otherwise, I’d be late for my aunt’s dinner party.
“Hi! I’m new here. I want to go to Union Station, but I’ve never used the subway before. Can you help me, please?” I silently prayed to God to save me from embarrassment.
And then he looked at me—big gray eyes meeting mine—and smiled. “Yeah, sure. Come with me. I’m heading there too.”
I followed him until we reached Union Station. We talked about Toronto, the weather, his profession, my studies, racism, religion, money, and human evolution. Just before leaving, he asked for my number. I smiled and took his, too. His name was Adrianne.
“You have reached Oshawa station,” the male voice in the station announced. When we were about to get off, the man on the speaker said politely, “Please be careful while leaving. Make sure you take your belongings. Don’t leave anything behind.”
I shook my head and nudged Violet. “Well, at least the guy on the speaker cares about me.”
She rolled her eyes. “He says that to everyone.”
We laughed and stepped onto the wet platform.
My phone blinged. “Is it him?” Violet asked.
I nodded, checking his text.
“What did he say?”
“Just a basic thing—he was busy. What am I up to?” I replied, sliding the phone into my jeans pocket.
“His one-liners bother you, huh?” Violet said, linking her arm with mine.
“They do. Suddenly, his messages feel cold, like he’s replying just to reply. The other night, he made me dinner, and two days later, his texts are cold. And it’s gnawing at me. I look for answers, I reach out more, and I… I don’t like this version of myself—desperate for a response.” I exhaled. “If this is what falling in love means, I don’t want to fall.”
“Can we choose who we fall for? When we fall? No. But love comes with its counterpart—grief. If you’re falling in love, prepare for grief too.”
“I don’t have the energy to dwell in limbo, Vi. I don’t want to feel like I’m chasing someone. I’m tired.” I sat down on the bench outside the station.
Violet sat beside me. “Let him be, Kayra. Don’t bother him.”
I looked at her. “What about me, Vi? What about his being vague bothers me? Why does he hold so much power over me?”
Rather than replying immediately, she took my hand softly in hers. “You are allowing it. You are empowering him.” She paused. “But do what makes you happy. Reach out to him if you want. Keep reaching out until you find what you’re looking for. But do you really know what you are looking for?”
I couldn’t answer. I just stared at her blankly.
And she got it. “You will find your answer. But never feel small just because your mind seeks answers. If someone fails to match your level, it’s not your fault. It’s their incapacity.”
I leaned my head on her shoulder, and she didn’t let go of my hand.
“Why do I even like him? He’s so opposite of what I want.”
“Maybe it’s not about him. Maybe you’re just scared to start again. You’ve always had someone—always part of a ‘we.’ Being on your own… it’s new. And new feels scarier than someone half-present.”
I swallowed hard. She wasn’t wrong. I’d built my whole life around “we.” Even now, I still reach for that anchor, even when the rope cuts my hands.
But the strange thing is—I like my solitude too. I’ve grown into it. I cook for myself, take long walks, and fall asleep with books beside me. My life is full even when no one is in it. So it’s not that I need him to fill a gap. When he’s around, the air shifts. He makes me remember how much I crave the idea of having someone of my own, how much I miss being seen. It’s not loneliness. Maybe it’s desire?
Violet raised a brow. “So why him? Why are you holding onto a man who doesn’t even text back properly? Who doesn’t make any proactive plans to see you? You like him, but have you asked yourself why you like him? What did he do to earn your “like?””
I sighed. “I think it’s the memory of the warmth of the moment I can’t shake off.”
“But you are someone who doesn’t live for momentary happiness,” Violet quipped.
I took a breath before speaking again. “No, I don’t live for that. I guess it’s just that I’m a giver. I give for no reason, without expectation, but also with just a glimmer of hope that they can appreciate me and somehow reciprocate in their own way.”
“So, you’re living for the hope of it all?” Violet teases with the Taylor Swift lyric.
I shrugged. “Maybe.”
“And you want to be in love but you do not want to depend on anyone emotionally, because you fear they’ll think you’re too much and get scared?”
“Precisely. You got me.”
Violet laughed. “So… are you battling love or not falling in love?”
I didn’t have any answer for that.
We sat there, two girls in the drizzle under a yellow lamppost. One contemplating love, the other contemplating the art of not falling in love.
Three days later…
“Girl, what happened to your Instagram? It shows zero posts?” Sana called.
I was sleeping when she called. Dragging the duvet up to my chin, I replied, “Yes. I archived everything. All posts, reposts, reels—everything.”
“Why? Is everything okay?”
I sighed. “I just want to disappear.”
She stayed silent before speaking. “Or you want to be actually found?”
And I sat with her question for a while.
Five days later…
The fairy lights are on. I’m in bed with my leather-bound journal, a gift from Sana on my birthday. I picked up the pen and started scribbling.
Maybe I’m not holding on to him—I’m holding on to the hope of him. The flashes where he feels like a beginning, not a mistake. Maybe that’s what keeps me tethered: not the man, but the story I keep writing in my head. I’m holding on because a part of me whispers that maybe he actually likes me too; it’s just that this is how he communicates.
I put down the pen, picked up my phone, started to text him… and then put it back down. The text remained unsent.
Ten days later…
I spotted the watermelon in the grocery shop and picked it up. He was a fan of watermelon. I grabbed ice cream, and he loved that too. Paying at the cash counter, I hurried home. I invited Adrianne for dinner that night. He hadn’t given me a concrete answer yet; he’d said he’d let me know. I shopped anyway, in case he came.
At home, I cooked biriyani, cleaned the house, tidied my room, and took a shower while waiting. I made a cup of milk tea and sat on the balcony. The weather was perfect—not too hot, not too cold. It was the end of August, and September was almost there. The sky was cloudy, the breeze mild and soothing. There was a chill in the air, and I liked it. My phone binged—a meme from Violet. I laughed.
While sipping tea, my eyes wandered to the bookshelf in the corner of my room and my laptop on the desk. I smiled, remembering a childhood memory: I have my books to go back to when the world becomes unbearable. As a teenager, the narrative shifted a bit: Now I have my books and stories to go back to.
I’m in my thirties now. I have—Violet’s silly memes, Sana’s introspective questions, my brother’s jokes, our cat’s sassy attitude, a long midnight walk, my books, my stories, and my biriyani—to go back to.
The sky roared, a drop of rain landing on my cheek, bringing me to the present. Inhaling the earthy smell, I went to the kitchen, served myself a plate of biriyani, poured a glass of Diet Coke, and sat in front of the TV, turning on Netflix’s Nobody Wants This. I’m going to enjoy my biriyani, ice cream, and watermelon that I bought for Adrianne—whether he’s here or not.
Sana was right—I wanted to be found… by the right people.
Violet was right too—I’m looking for something… a shore.
And that night, as the storm unleashed outside, somehow I found myself paddling through it in the middle of the ocean, searching for that shore I had glimpsed earlier while devouring biriyani, ice cream, and watermelon in my living room, watching Netflix.
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About
Born and raised in the bustling capital of Bangladesh- Dhaka, Umme Pritam has been in love with reading since childhood, which eventually led her to write fiction. In 2022, she published her debut novel Eiliyah worldwide. The novel explored themes of love, loss, and self-discovery, and since its release, she has continued to write fiction that centers quiet emotional truths and complex interpersonal dynamics. She is currently working on her second novel: Far away from the maddening crowd.
Now based in Canada, she remains committed to writing stories that cross cultural and emotional borders. The enclosed story reflects her ongoing interest in characters navigating identity, vulnerability, and the intricate relationships that shape their lives.
When she is not writing, you’ll find her having deep, long conversations with her friends, reading books and watching movies, or simply taking a long walk on the trail behind her house.
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