Reflections That Never Arrived

The glass became our only language.
Your face brushed mine
in the blur of reflection,
two shadows stitched together
by the hum of iron wheels.

I pretended not to notice—
the way your eyes lingered,
the way your silence tilted toward mine,
like a compass needle
seeking a forgotten North.
We were passengers of parallel lives,
breathing the same stale air,
hearts rattling in rhythm
with the tracks beneath our feet.

Outside, the world unfolded
like a painting in motion—
fields splitting into rivers,
bridges dissolving into cities—
yet I watched only the window,
where your ghost leaned into mine,
where possibility pressed its forehead
against the glass
but never dared to enter.

Perhaps in another life,
you would have spoken first,
your voice cutting through
the static of announcements.
Perhaps I would have answered,
unfolding the words I kept
knotted at the base of my throat.
But in this life,
we remained silhouettes—
fleeting, incomplete,
a question left unanswered.

When the train slowed,
I felt the ache of departure
before it arrived.
Your reflection slipped from mine,
swallowed by the distance of choices
that neither of us made.

Still, sometimes,
when I press my head to a window,
I see the ghost of your eyes,
the way they almost touched me
without touching,
the way we loved,
briefly,
without ever speaking.

- Khushi Kaul