Station

"At the train station yesterday, I watched a man say goodbye to someone," Laramie said quietly. "His person boarded; he waved (as one does) and then stood there, watching it leave, clenching and unclenching his fists. He tried to move from the spot a number of times, but couldn't until it was well out of sight. He waved at nothing come the end; the train was away and his fists were working, and then there was a panicked waving off as if he had not done the right thing and it counted against him." "Wow," Snelling laughed. "That's passively tragic." "Isn't it?" Laramie answered in agreement. "And we've all done it a thousand times: waited too long to say the words, waved too late, missed the moment. It struck me that I was watching a life curse itself with regret, and I felt awkward and humble and panicked myself." "I don't think you need to worry," Snelling comforted. "You are the most direct person I know. You just say a thing if it needs saying - even if no one wants to hear it!" "Do I?" Laramie whispered. "Are you certain of that - or do you need that to be true?" And Snelling stopped talking then, feeling how quickly the world turns when you've banked on it moving slowly. "Ask me," Laramie whispered. "I can see you want to. Ask me why I was at the train station."