BETWEEN TWO STATIONS

            I still remember that morning. The dew hadn't fully evaporated from the train window when I sat on a bench by the window, clutching a book that I wasn't actually reading. At Bojonegoro station, I met him. A man who later changed the direction of my life like a machinist who suddenly changes tracks without a signal.

 His name is Efik.

I don't know why, out of all the people who passed by that morning, my eyes were drawn to her. She was sitting on a bench in the waiting room, wearing a gray sweater and carrying a bright yellow backpack that contrasted with her sad eyes. As I walked past her, she was staring at the ceiling like she was counting the seconds, or waiting for something uncertain. I sat not far from him, pretending to fiddle with my phone.

And perhaps, the universe was playing tricks on us. Our trains turned out to be the same: destined for Surabaya.

Economy trains don't offer comfort, but that's where the most honest conversations happen. She sat one row ahead of me. As he turned to look at me to stow my backpack on the top shelf, our eyes met.

"Need some help?" he said as he got up.

And of course I wanted to. But I just nodded and watched him help me, trying to look casual, even though my heartbeat was like the sound of train wheels going around a corner.

Our introduction started with that yellow backpack.

We chatted most of the way. From the window overlooking rice fields and small stations, we talked about trivial things-music, books, movies, and favorite coffee. He chuckled when I told him I couldn't stand black coffee. She pouted sweetly when she found out I had never been up a mountain.

Efik is different from anyone I've ever known. He has his own way of looking at the world. He says he believes that every person is a city to be explored, and he wants to visit as many as possible.

"Are you sure people aren't islands?" I asked at the time.

"Islands are too static," he replied. "Cities have lights, dark alleys, and windows you can't necessarily open. I like that."

I paused. I knew right then and there, I was in love.

But love is not a one-way train ticket. After arriving at Surabaya Pasar Turi Station, we exchanged contacts. We spent a few days in the city, exploring the corners of Tunjungan, enjoying soto at roadside stalls, and staying at angkringan while listening to street musicians.

 

Time seemed to shrink, like the sand in a clock sped up by an invisible hand. When the time for parting came, we stood at the bus stop, awkward and silent.

"I'll be back in Bojonegoro next week," he said.

I just nodded, even though I wanted to say: Stay here. Or let me come with you wherever you go.

But I kept quiet. Like the stupid woman in the movies, I thought time would tell.

What I didn't expect was that time would bring distance.

Efik and I still texted each other. But like branching tracks, we slowly went in different directions. He started to get busy with his job as a factory operator. I started working in an office that demanded time and thought. Our messages became shorter, sometimes just emojis. Sometimes there was no reply.

I still often open the photos of us in Surabaya. I still have that first train ticket. But I also began to realize that love, like travel, doesn't always stay on the same path.

Two years passed.

I'm in a relationship with someone else. So is Efik, I heard from a friend. But something remains behind my eyes every time I close my lids: the shadow of the station, the laughter in the economy car, and Efik's voice saying that everyone is a city.

Until one day, unexpectedly, he reappeared.

That afternoon I was sitting in a small café in Arek, finishing up a work report while sipping a latte. The café door opened, and a small bell rang. I turned my head, and my eyes caught the same yellow backpack. Efik was standing there, like a snippet of an old song suddenly playing again.

We stared at each other for a few seconds. She smiled. I stood up.

"Do you still like sweet lattes?" she asked as she sat in front of me.

"Still," I replied. "And you're still carrying that backpack."

He laughed softly. "It's like a part of my spine."

Our conversation flowed like it was uninterrupted. But I knew this was no longer a clichéd romantic story. We were no longer two young people on a train, but two adults who had learned about loss.

"Why are you here?" I asked finally.

She looked at me. "I was just wondering... if we had the chance again, would you take the same train as me?"

The question hung like a thin mist. I looked down at the coffee in my cup, then up at her eyes.

"I... don't know," I said honestly. "I was too scared to ask if you wanted to stay on the same track. Now I'm afraid that if I say 'yes', you'll say 'no'."

He nodded slowly. "I'm scared too. But sometimes, love is not just about courage. It's also about time."

We parted ways that night without certainty. But also without regret.

A few weeks later, I got the news that Efik was moving abroad for a program I didn't know about for a year. He didn't say goodbye again. And I didn't look for him again. Maybe that's another form of love. Letting someone go, without chaining them to possibilities that never grow.

Now, I often ride the train alone. Every time I see the yellow backpack, my heart beats a little faster, then slowly subsides. I know that our love story didn't end happily like in a fairy tale. But it's still a love story.

Six months had passed since our last meeting at a small café in Cikini. Since then, I never heard from Efik again. He seemed to have disappeared, like the twilight that I didn't have time to capture.beautiful, but fleeting. I tried to move on with my life, living my increasingly busy days, although occasionally the memories came like a song that suddenly played on the radio.

Until one afternoon in November.

I had just gotten home from work when I received a small package with no sender's name. Inside was a leather-bound sketchbook. When I opened it, the first page was written in hand ink:

“For you whom I always remember, even though I can't always say hello. This is the city you built in my memory. Thank you for letting me stay there.” -E

The following pages are full of sketches. We're at Pasar Turi station, in a Surabaya angkringan, on an economy train, even in the small cafe where we last met. Each drawing comes with a small note. About laughter. About silence. About longing that never asked for direction.

I held my breath when I reached the last page. A picture of a train with two empty seats in the middle carriage. Underneath, it read:

“If you still want to take the same train... I've already bought the ticket. Pasar Turi Station, December 17th. 07.15. Car 3. Bench 14A and 14B.”

My hands were shaking. My head was full of questions. But one thing was certain-I knew where to go.

On December 17, I arrived at the station before dawn. The air was cold and the station lights were dimly lit. I wore a thick jacket and held my ticket in my hand. I didn't know what I was waiting for. Maybe a confession, maybe forgiveness, or maybe just a small miracle like that morning.

At 7.10am, I boarded carriage 3. Bench 14A was empty. I sat, staring at the window, my heart beating like the first time I saw her.

Then someone tapped me on the shoulder.

“I thought you weren't coming,” he said.

I turned my head. Efik was standing there, his smile still the same, his eyes still shady, and the yellow backpack still hanging on his back.

“I thought you weren't serious,” I said.

“I thought you'd hesitate,” he retorted.

We laughed. Then silence, staring at each other. But this time, there was nothing to say. No delays. No more fear of time.

The train started moving. We sat next to each other, just like before. But this time, I held her hand.

We spent a few days in Surabaya, just like before. But everything felt new. We went back to the same angkringan, looked up at the sky, and laughed when the rain came down suddenly.

On the last day, as the sun was about to set, we sat on the edge of the Tunjungan market. Efik stared at the flowing water, then turned to me.

“Why did you come that time?”

I smiled. “Because I finally realized... you're not just a city I can explore. You are the home I always want to come home to.”

She smiled. “And you... are the train that I finally waited for without fear of losing my way.”

That day, we didn't make any promises. But we knew that no matter what happened, we would always find our way back.

Now, every time I get on the train, I know that on the next bench is Efik with his yellow backpack, a beaming smile, and eyes that are always looking ahead. We have rewritten our love story, not as a story that stops at the station, but as a long journey that needs no end, only direction.

My love story, once stopped between two stations, is now moving forward.

Towards home. Towards her.