Morning arrived without ceremony. The train slowed, sighed, and finally stopped, as if it too was tired of carrying people who didn't know where they belonged. I stepped down onto the platform of a city that didn't know my name, my past, or the weight I carried with me. For the first time in a long while, nobody was waiting for me—and that was exactly why I had come.
The air felt different here. Colder, sharper. Or maybe that was just me noticing things more because there was no familiar voice beside me anymore. I walked out of the station with my bag slung over my shoulder, blending into the crowd of strangers who all seemed to have somewhere important to be. I followed them without purpose, letting the streets decide where I would end up.
The room I rented was small and plain, with white walls and a single window that looked out onto another building just as empty-looking as mine. It felt temporary, like a place meant to be passed through rather than lived in. I told myself that was fine. Temporary was safer. Temporary didn't ask questions.
I unpacked slowly, realizing there wasn't much to unpack at all. A few clothes, a notebook, some documents. No photographs on purpose. I had left those behind, or at least I thought I had. When I opened the side pocket of my bag, my breath caught. A folded photo slipped out and landed on the bed. I stared at it for a long moment before picking it up.
It was her.
Not posed, not aware of the camera. Just her, smiling at something outside the frame, alive in a way that hurt to look at. I couldn't remember putting the photo there, but some part of me must have known I would need it. Or maybe I had wanted to punish myself with it. I sat down on the edge of the bed and held it until my fingers hurt.
The days that followed settled into a quiet routine. I found a job that paid enough to survive but not enough to dream. I learned the streets, the shortcuts, the cafés where nobody noticed how long you sat alone. People spoke to me, worked with me, smiled politely, but none of it reached very deep. I was present, but I wasn't there.
At night, the silence became louder. Without distractions, my mind returned to the things I had avoided for so long. I wondered if she still checked her phone at night, expecting a message that would never come. I wondered if my mother counted days the way some people count prayers. I told myself they would be fine. I had to believe that, or leaving would become unbearable.
One evening, as rain tapped gently against the window, my phone lit up again. This time, it wasn't her. It was my mother. I hesitated before answering, my heart already heavy.
"Are you eating properly?" she asked, skipping greetings the way only mothers do.
"Yes," I lied gently.
She didn't push. She rarely did. We spoke about small things—the weather, work, neighbors. She avoided the past, and I avoided the future. When the call ended, I sat there for a long time, staring at the dark screen. Staying connected without truly being present felt like another form of disappearance.
Weeks passed. Slowly, the city stopped feeling completely foreign. I learned how to exist here without thinking too much. But every now and then, something small—a laugh that sounded like hers, a familiar song playing somewhere—would pull the ground from under my feet. In those moments, I realized something painful and true.
I hadn't left my old life behind.
I had carried it with me.
That night, I took out the photo again and placed it back into my bag, not hidden this time. I wasn't ready to let go, but I was tired of pretending I already had. Leaving had given me distance, not peace. And as I lay awake, staring at the ceiling of a room that still didn't feel like mine, I finally understood something I had refused to face.
Running away doesn't erase love.
It only teaches you how heavy it becomes when you carry it alone.