The train pulled away from the platform, lumbering and lurching forward on its launch, away from the city and into the fog.
We were silent for a while. Maybe it was fifteen minutes. Maybe it was thirty. I wasn’t paying attention, lost in my own fog.
I reached for my partner’s hair, barely grazing his ear. His response was immediate, frosty, and painful.
“Don’t touch me,” he said.
I winced as if I’d been stabbed. It had just dawned on me that I’d erred moments before we boarded. His words stung my core with the venom of a thousand snakes.
He cringed and pressed into the furthest edge of his seat, shoulder against the window, as if he was hoping to somehow osmose through the glass to get away from me.
“I’m sorry,” I frowned. Maybe all of this was my fault. Maybe I should feel ashamed. I didn’t know, not right now.
“I don’t care,” he said, not staring at me. He was staring out at the cars, the houses, the tracks. Maybe he was talking to my reflection in the glass. Maybe he was talking to himself. Maybe he was talking to the window. “What you hid from me was selfish.”
I was glad he wouldn’t look at me. I was I looked at the carpet. I looked at the seat in front of me. I couldn’t look at him. I couldn’t bear the tear-stained cheeks, the wet eyes, the pained expression. He was weeping again. Quietly, but I could hear it in his voice.
Time passed. The silence was deafening. Other passengers were making light conversation, talking about their jobs, their travel plans. Their pedantic blathering was soothing in a way that only served to make me feel more tense.
Maybe it was another hour. Maybe it was two. I was, for the moment, in stasis, trying not to think about things.
“I can’t live without you,” he sobbed. “I don’t know what I’m going to do once you’re gone.” He turned back to me and it was as if he’d stung me all over again. His expression was that of a lost child and a grieving widow rolled into one.
His pain was palpable. It was touching and terrifying. I didn’t know what to say. Maybe I should try to console him. Maybe I should say nothing. Maybe I should say everything. Maybe I should hide in the bathroom. Maybe I should pull on the flask in my bag. Maybe I should cry, too. Maybe I should do nothing.
“I’m sorry,” I said, and I put my arm around him. This time he didn’t recoil. He embraced me and sobbed into my shoulder. “I’m sorry.”