Sitting on the cold, damp platform, I feel the chill seep through my bones, a biting reminder of how far I’ve fallen. The railway hums with life around me, but I remain still, invisible to those who rush past. People wrapped in coats and scarves clutch their bags and coffee cups, eyes fixed ahead, destinations clear. Their lives seem purposeful, moving forward like the trains that roar past without a glance in my direction.

I am a ghost in their world, watching from the margins. Each train feels like an opportunity lost—a reminder of movement and progress I can no longer grasp. I imagine stepping aboard, being carried somewhere warm, somewhere welcoming, somewhere better. But reality snaps back like the cold wind that whips through the station. I have nowhere to go, no ticket to ride, no one waiting for me at the other end.

The platform feels endless, a liminal space that mirrors my life. Not here, not there. Just... stuck. My mind drifts to memories of warmth, safety, and belonging. Were they ever real, or just dreams I tell myself on nights like these? The damp creeps into my body, and with it, a heaviness in my chest—hopelessness, despair. Will this ever change? Can it?

Yet amidst the desolation, I catch snippets of laughter, the rumble of trains, the distant warmth of human connection. A flicker of hope stirs, as fragile as the light of a match in the wind. Perhaps, one day, I’ll board a train and leave this place behind. Until then, I sit and watch life pass me by, both a witness and a stranger to it all, waiting for something to shift, for a new beginning—or an end.