He was the man who gave me my first child, and part of me wanted to believe that meant something. That morning, before sunrise, I saw him standing on the platform with a suitcase in one hand and his phone in the other, checking it as if my name might appear. I stayed hidden around the corner, close enough to hear him sigh, far enough that he couldn't see me waver. He was going to ask me again to come with him, to try again, to pretend we hadn't already broken each other beyond repair. I didn't want to explain why I wouldn't ' or couldn't ' go. So I stayed silent. When the train arrived, he searched the crowd one last time, then stepped inside. I let the doors close on him, and on the version of me he still hoped for.