Page 3 of Absolution

He has a good laugh. It sneaks up on you, quiet at first, then unexpectedly loud, full-throated. And his smile? Yeah, dangerous.

I tell him about being the youngest of three. How my siblings and I bickered so much as kids we nearly drove our mom insane, full-on screaming matches over cereal, TV, bathroom turns. But somewhere along the way, all that noise turned into something solid. Now we’re so close we have a standing conference call. It started as me venting about Mom being impossible, but it turned into this ritual. Every week, we catch up on everything. Life stuff. Dumb stuff.

“Whenever we’re together,” I say, smiling, “it’s still like we’re five. We revert. But also… we’d fight anyone for each other.”

He’s quiet for a second, watching the lights outside flick past.

“I’m an only child,” he says finally. “I always thought it’d be cool to have siblings.”

By hour five, we’re past small talk. It’s the kind of conversation that makes time feel strange, like the train isn’t just moving us through states, but through some suspended space where everything feels safe to say. I tell him things I’ve barely said out loud before.

Like how all my friends moved away for college last fall. Facebook turned into dry one-word replies. Invites stopped coming. I guess they outgrew me and that’s okay, I say, and I mean it. Mostly. But it’s not fun. It’s never exciting being the one left behind, watching everyone else’s life get bigger while yours gets smaller.

Kyle listens. Really listens. No phone, no fake nods. Just quiet, steady attention like I’m worth the space I take up.

When he talks, his voice is low, thoughtful. He doesn’t make any promises and honestly, for all we know, we’ll never see each other again. Just two strangers passing through the same quiet moment on a train headed south.

But that thought sits heavy in my chest. It’s strange. We just met. Hours ago, he was just a guy arguing with a gate agent.

And yet… the idea of never seeing him again hurts more than being cheated on by my boyfriend of two years.

At some point, I kick off my boots and curl up sideways on my seat. He does the same. Our knees brush once, a soft, accidental thing and neither of us pulls away.

We share snacks. He has almonds. I have chocolate. He pretends he doesn’t want any, then eats half the bar.

When we pass through St. Louis, it’s still dark out. The train stops briefly, platform lights flicker through the window like a silent film, and for a moment we just sit there, side by side, watching the city drift by.

He leans back against the wall, looking at me like I’ve surprised him.

“You’re not what I expected,” he says.

“Yeah? What were you expecting?”

“I don’t know. Not someone who’d share a train bedroom with a stranger and threaten him with bodily harm.”

I smirk. “I contain multitudes.”

“You really do.”

The train lurches as it starts again. My head is foggy from too much sitting, too little sleep. But I feel good. Light. Like for the first time in a while, life isn’t passing me by, it’s taking me with it.

Later, we fold down the beds. He offers to take the top bunk, and I don’t argue. There’s a weird kind of intimacy in hearing someone breathe above you in the dark, not sexual, just human.I lie awake for a while, listening to the train, his steady breath, the creak of the tracks. At some point, I drift off.

By the time we hit Texas, something has shifted. Nothing’s happened, not really. But everything’s different.

We walk off the train in Austin as… what? Not strangers. Not quite friends. Something in between. Something that could become more, if either of us were brave enough to ask. Stopping outside the station, Kyle turns to me.

“Do you need a ride?” he asks.

I shake my head. “My mom’s already circling the block.”

He nods like he gets it. Like we both know this little pocket of time, this strange, suspended space we shared is about to close. I should turn and walk away. But I don’t. And neither does he.

“Well,” he says letting out a breath. “This was great. I thought Texas would be a fresh start, but I didn’t think I’d meet someone so… great before I even got there.”

I smile, waiting. Hoping. Just ask.

A horn blares behind me, I turn to see my mom’s car parked up the street, her eyes definitely already reading way too much into all of this.

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