Lonely Soul Train

An ex-husband and ex-wife ran into each other on a train. She was already seated when he stepped in. Neither tried to avoid the other — they weren’t kids anymore, and their breakup had been quiet, without drama or scandal. They gave each other a quick, assessing look. Even smiled. The past was long gone; what happened, happened. After all, they’d shared two years of their lives.

He thought she still looked good — time had left its marks, sure, but she carried herself with that same grace, dressed neatly as always. She, in turn, noticed that his hair had thinned, and the bald spot was making steady progress. His face hadn’t changed much, except perhaps for a certain tired focus in his eyes.

“How have you been?” he asked.
“I’m fine,” she said — the usual answer.

He couldn’t resist. “You seeing anyone?”
She told him she’d remarried three years ago — her husband was a district attorney. A serious man, responsible, always busy. She was a homemaker now, kept their apartment spotless, cooked dinner. She’d sold the small condo they once lived in and, with her new husband, bought a little summer house out in the country. A place to escape on weekends.

She finished her story, then looked at him with a polite smile. “Your turn.”

He said he’d remarried too. His wife managed a grocery store — always brought home more food than they could eat. He hadn’t stepped foot in a supermarket in years. She was strict but kind, often exhausted from work. They hadn’t bought a vacation home; too much hassle, too much yardwork. It was easier to travel — a new country each summer.

Silence fell between them.

Then she said quietly, “Your mother was such a wonderful woman. How is she?”
He lowered his eyes. “She passed away two years ago.”
She sighed softly. He did too. The conversation lost its rhythm.

“How did you live after we split?” he asked suddenly. “Ever regret it?”
She tossed her head back with a light laugh.
“No, not really,” she said confidently. Then, after a pause, added softly, “It was hard at first, though…”

She didn’t explain what “hard” meant. Just looked at him again. “And you?”
He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to brush the thought away, but honesty slipped through.
“It nearly broke me,” he admitted. “But my wife helped calm me down. Things are okay now. We have a good life. No kids, though… too late for that.”
She nodded.

The train slowed and came to a stop. They stepped off, exchanged one last glance — just a small nod — and went their separate ways.

He returned to his tiny rented room in a shared house. The neighbors were loud, the kitchen smelled like fried onions. He turned on the single electric burner to boil some frozen dumplings. He didn’t want to talk. Just to sit quietly.

After the divorce, his heart had shattered. He’d gone through a rough stretch — drank too much, fell into debt, nearly lost everything. His mother’s heart gave out soon after. He sold her apartment to pay what he owed. Now he lived in this little room — enough for one person, nothing more.

He couldn’t be with anyone else. Some people’s hearts just close for good. His had — and inside it, she still lived. His first and only.

He sat there thinking, Why did I lie? Maybe out of pride. Maybe because at his age, being alone felt shameful.

She, meanwhile, came home to her own apartment. On the doorstep, a cat with a serious face greeted her — she’d named him “Judge.” She smiled sadly. Why did I lie too?

There’s something in human nature that makes us hide behind masks. Pretend that everything’s fine. That something — pride, fear, habit — builds invisible walls. Walls that keep us from turning back time or fixing what we once broke.

She lived alone in a one-bedroom apartment. He — in a rented room. Two lonely souls.

Only she had a cat named Judge.
And he had no one at all.