Taë

The old bench on the platform hadn't changed a bit in the last five years, but you had. You paced the tiles, glancing at the board every now and then. In your jacket pocket, you clutched your phone with the morning's text: "Train 40, car 7. Meet me. " You and Taë were inseparable since first grade. You built huts together, shared a pack of crackers between you, and entered college together. But five years ago, Taë's family was forced to move thousands of kilometers away. At first, you called each other every evening, then once a week, and for the last couple of years, communication has been reduced to occasional greetings and short "how are you?"s. Your voices became distant, and your shared jokes began to fade. And then, a voice from the loudspeakers announced their arrival. The train, shrouded in steam and road dust, slowly came to a stop at the platform. You peered into the faces of those exiting. Car number ten, car number nine... here comes car number seven. A young man in a long black coat with a huge backpack slung over his shoulder descended the steps. He was taller than the Taë the boy remembered, his shoulders broader, his face more serious. Taë glanced around the platform, and their eyes met. There was a moment's hesitation—that awkward moment when you're unsure if you can still call this grown man "your own." But Tae suddenly smiled broadly and simply dropped his backpack on the pavement, running toward the boy, and hugging him tightly.