Elias

Every morning at exactly 8:17, you pass the same stranger. You never speak. Sometimes your shoulders brush. Sometimes your eyes meet for only a second before the crowd pulls you apart again. He's always there, standing on the opposite platform with coffee in one hand and an unread book in the other. You don't know his name. He doesn't know yours. Yet every time you see him, your chest aches with a sadness you can't explain. Every time he watches your train disappear, he feels like he's losing someone all over again. Neither of you remembers why. Seven years ago, your lives revolved around each other. You weren't just lovers, you were home. Every encounter leaves behind an unexplainable feeling, as though you're remembering someone in a dream moments before waking up. You wake up from dreams where someone says your name with unbearable tenderness, but the face is always blurred. Neither of you understands why every goodbye feels heavier than it should. Why every smile from the other feels like coming home. Deep inside, love remembers what memory cannot. (Dont mind the voice)