Platform Number: Us

Prologue — The Stop Before the Story

To start with, I wish the firefly's glow that touched your heart last Sunday never dims — not in your days, not in your dreams. I hope, more than anything, that you're trying to be the firefly in your world. Even if your wings feel tired sometimes.

This week, I’m not giving you a lesson or a listicle. I’m offering you a piece of my still-beating heart. A narrative. A theory. A truth I stumbled upon not in a lecture or a journal — but in the in-between of a very ordinary day.

It was May 5. My official summer holidays were yet to begin, but the universe had other plans. Indo-Pak tensions had flared. Schools shut. Classes moved online. After my classes for the day was over, found myself holding my mom’s phone, just… scrolling.

One short. Just one short. That’s all it took.

An interview. A director. A question — "What does 'Ataraxia' mean?"
He didn’t know.
She explained.

And in those few seconds, something inside me stirred. Ataraxia — the ancient Greek word. A lucid stillness of the soul. Freedom from disturbance.
Not peace. Not silence. But a certain sacred calm — the kind that arrives only after your storms are acknowledged, not ignored.

And I realised — we don’t talk about this. About what it really takes to reach that stillness. The people it takes. Or the people it costs. The mess, the ache, the arrivals, the ghosted exits. All the love we receive too late and the closure we never get. The relationships that feel like safe stations, and the ones that derail us entirely.

And in that exact moment, Platform Number Us was born.

This isn’t a story about one relationship. It’s about all of them. Every undefined bond. Every accidental friend. Every almost-lover. Every goodbye that never got a proper send-off.
This is my Ataraxia. My search for it. My failures at finding it. And my growing belief that maybe, just maybe, it doesn’t come from solitude… but from understanding the chaos of us.

So here it is — the theory I promised you. Drenched in memories. Broken in places. Healing in others. Welcome aboard. We’re departing to Platform Number Us.

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Platform Number: Us

Life doesn’t always feel like a journey. Sometimes, it feels like a platform. A place where you’re not quite sure if you’re arriving or leaving — just waiting. And in this strange in-between of who you were and who you’re becoming, people pass through you like trains. Some stop. Some don’t. Some change your direction altogether.

Some people in our lives arrive like the early morning train — punctual, comforting, familiar. You don’t remember the exact moment they became important; you just know you can’t imagine your platform without them now. They show up with quiet love, laughter packed in tiffin boxes, and memories wrapped in warmth. They are the ones who sit beside you even when your journey seems delayed or directionless. Their presence is enough. You don’t need them to fix your life; you just need them to stay until your train comes.

Then there are those who run into your life like passengers dashing for a moving train. Sudden. Surprising. But oh, how beautiful the brief journey feels. Maybe it was a random partner during a school trip, someone you sat beside at a camp, or a classmate you never thought you'd talk to. They come bearing stories and shared snacks, laughter that feels like sunshine, and a strange comfort that makes you believe the world still holds kind people. Their stops are short. Their exits are sudden. But the echo of their laughter stays long after the doors close.

Some relationships feel like co-passengers you didn’t expect but slowly grew fond of. You started out awkward, maybe even distant. But one day they looked at you just right, asked the right question, and suddenly your stories spilled. Your fears. Your hopes. Your awkward playlist. You began depending on them for those in-between moments — the silence between stations, the stillness during breakdowns. And when they left, you found yourself looking at the empty seat beside you, hoping someone else would sit there the same way. No one ever did.

Then come the ones who were supposed to ride with you till the last stop. You made plans, remember? You saved them a seat. You told them secrets you hadn’t even told yourself yet. You pictured them in your future photos, weddings, successes, breakdowns — all of it. But somewhere along the way, they decided to get off. And the worst part? They didn’t say goodbye. No dramatic farewell. No loud argument. Just a quiet step off the train and a new companion in their seat the next morning. You stare blankly, wondering when the timetable changed and why you weren’t told. Was it your silence? Your sadness? Or were you just… no longer enough?

And what breaks you more is when they wave from another train. With someone else. Laughing at jokes you used to make. Sharing your inside stories with outsiders. Making promises they once whispered to you under the flickering lights of a night train. That betrayal doesn’t cut you once — it slashes you again and again with memories. Because you knew their route. You helped them board. And they still chose another ride.

There are also those who enter your life later than expected — like a train you thought was cancelled, only to find it slowly pulling into the platform. They surprise you with their timing, their warmth, their presence. Just when you’d made peace with being alone, they arrive. And it feels like magic. Like the universe hadn’t forgotten you after all. These people don’t always stay forever, but they remind you that life isn’t done giving you good stories. They restore a part of you others broke.

But not all departures are dramatic. Some friends and connections fade like the announcements you stopped hearing after a while. You didn’t fight. You didn’t cry. You just… stopped talking. The calls became less frequent. The jokes stopped landing. The spaces you once filled for each other now echo with absence. These are the most haunting — the almosts, the used-to-bes, the I-wonder-what-went-wrongs.

And then there are the ones you never even got to say goodbye to. The school friend who used to wait for you outside class now walks past you in the corridor like you were never a part of their story. The cousin who once told you everything now replies in one-word texts. The childhood neighbor who promised to be your bridesmaid is now just a forgotten contact in your phone. They left like ghost trains in the night — quiet, inexplicable, and unforgettable.

But strangely, amidst all these arrivals and departures, you still choose to wait. You still hold space in your heart. Because once in a while, someone shows up who makes the waiting worth it. Someone who sits beside you, not just on good days, but even when the train’s late, the weather’s rough, and your coffee spills. Someone who doesn't mind the detours. Someone who tells you that your platform is home, not just a stop.

And maybe that’s what life really is. A series of platforms. Of people arriving, leaving, staying, returning. Some love you. Some leave you. Some forget you. Some haunt you. And some… quietly, beautifully… save you.

So keep waiting. Not desperately. Not blindly. But with hope. Because even if people leave, even if the platforms change, and even if some trains never come back — the journey was real. The laughter was real. The tears were real. And so were you! So sit on your platform. Watch the sky change. Let the ones who leave, leave. Let the ones who stay, stay. And keep space in your heart for the ones who haven’t arrived yet.

With tons of trains passing by,                                                                       

 Srilaks