The train slowed into the station she used to pass every day on her way to high school. It should have felt familiar. It didn’t.
Across from her, Zayd scrolled on his phone, legs stretched out like always — comfortable, unmoved. No welcome hug. No “how was your journey.” Just, “We’ll take the train.” His way of saying: let's get this over with.
The silence wasn’t new. But what once felt like comfort now pressed at her chest like a door she didn’t have the key for.
It had been a year since she left. Since she chose Canada. Since she chased something bigger than home. And now that she was back, the house felt like a room she wasn’t invited into. Her mother’s eyes held distance. Her father’s words were short. And Zayd — Zayd had absorbed their quiet judgment without saying a word. Not siding with them, but not with her either.
He kept scrolling.
“You could ask,” she said, voice low. “How school is? Or if I missed you?”
He didn’t look up.
She half-laughed. “You stayed. That makes you the good one, right?”
He paused, just for a breath. “Don’t turn this into something.”
She looked down at the canvas bag in her lap. Inside was a Ferrari racing jacket, limited release, Canada only. It had taken weeks to find and cost more than she wanted to admit. He’d mentioned it once on a call, half-joking. “They won’t even ship it here.” She remembered the way his eyes lit up with the familiar love he had for cars ever since they were kids.
She had bought it anyway. Had it shipped. Had imagined this moment going differently.
“I know you wanted this,” she said. Her voice cracked. “Even if you won’t say it.”
She pulled the jacket out, red and black, still folded, tags intact and set it gently on the seat between them.
“I chose to leave,” she said. “But I didn’t choose to be left behind.”
The train slowed again. Two stops from the start. She stood, letting her hand hover a second longer over the jacket before pulling away.
He didn’t move. Didn't speak.
The doors opened and she went to step off.
She turned just enough to catch him looking at the jacket. Not scrolling. Not deflecting. Just staring at the thing like it weighed more than it should.
That night, he took her for a drive in his Ferrari. He didn’t say thank you. She didn’t ask for one. But he was wearing the jacket and when the engine roared down an empty road, she smiled without meaning to. He caught it in the rearview and smiled too, like maybe, just maybe, they were starting again.
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