Late Happiness
Boris wandered aimlessly through the unfamiliar sprawl of the city until he reached the station. His legs ached from exhaustion, and his mood was as foul as the weather. He’d been so eager to come, never imagining he’d be leaving like this. He’d done nothing wrong, yet here he was, slinking away like a cat caught doing mischief.
He spotted an empty bench in the waiting area and slumped down to rest. *Just a few minutes to catch my breath, then I’ll check about the ticket. Five more minutes won’t change anything. At least I didn’t book a return in advance. Planned to stay a week… Oh well.*
When the numbness in his legs faded, he heaved his now unbearably heavy duffel onto his shoulder and shuffled toward the ticket counters. As he waited in line, he watched the station’s chaos, wondering what he’d do if there were no tickets left. But the clerk handed him one. Only catch? The train wouldn’t leave for over three hours. Fine. The ticket was in his hands now—he was going home.
He tucked the ticket and his passport into his jacket pocket and glanced back. His seat was already taken. He stepped outside, toward the platforms. Benches lined the station walls, empty except for one by Platform 6, where a sleek express train stood ready to depart. The digital board flickered with departure times and destinations. The air smelled of creosote, cigarette smoke, and the stale sweat of unwashed bodies—thousands had passed through here today, vagrants and drunks among them.
Boris settled on a bench with a clear view of the boards and platforms, resigning himself to the wait. His mind replayed the argument with Helen’s grandson, words he should’ve said now rising uselessly in his throat.
“Seat taken?”
A young man in a sharp suit stood beside him, gripping a wheeled suitcase.
“No, sit,” Boris said, shifting slightly though there was plenty of room. He noticed the other benches had filled too.
The man loosened his tie and settled his luggage. “Business trip?” Boris asked, craving conversation, the sound of another voice.
“On my way back from one,” the man replied curtly, glancing at him.
“Same here,” Boris sighed.
“You too?” The man arched a brow skeptically.
“No. Visiting. Thought I’d stay longer, but… plans changed.” Boris hung his head.
“Got kicked out?” The man’s tone softened.
“Something like that. Waiting for the Edinburgh train. You?”
“Bad luck for both of us, eh? Had to leave early myself. Changed my ticket.”
“What carriage?”
“Eleventh.”
“Same as me. And your compartment—not number five, is it?”
The man frowned, checked his ticket, then nodded. He clapped his hands on his knees.
“Blimey, what are the odds? Just bought yours?” He studied Boris more closely—they’d be sharing the journey.
“Yeah.”
“Was supposed to leave in two days, but my wife called. My daughter’s ill. Said she’s terrified to even say the diagnosis out loud, crying her eyes out. Had to cut the trip short.”
“Could’ve flown. Faster,” Boris noted.
“Petrified of planes, honestly. Trains are safer.”
Just then, the man’s phone buzzed in his jacket. He answered, turning slightly away as Boris politely averted his gaze.
“Hey. Yeah, at the station now… I know, I hoped too. Miss you already. Don’t cry—I’ll try to swing by if I can… Yeah, I’ll ring if anything changes. Alright, love you. Bye.” He hung up, his mood visibly darker. Both men sat in silence.
“Don’t act like you don’t get it.” The man broke the quiet abruptly. “Don’t judge me, old man. You don’t know a thing.”
“Not judging. None of my business,” Boris said.
“Exactly. I’d tear the world apart for my daughter. But my wife… Fell for someone else like a lovesick schoolboy. Ever happen to you?”
“Course. But never cheated. Marriage is a promise. What if she’d strayed? How’d you live with that?”
“So business trips are just cover, then?”
“Sharp, aren’t you? Every six months I come here, breathe easy. Lets me keep going.” His gaze drifted.
“How old’s your daughter?”
“Twelve. And you? Kids kick you out?” the man asked, almost spitefully.
“My son’s in London with his family. Always begging me to visit. But why? They’ve got their own lives. Don’t want to intrude.”
“Smart,” the man nodded.
“Wife died three years back. Married her to spite my own heart. When she was gone, I wanted to follow. Couldn’t stand being alone. Maybe I did love her—just didn’t know what love was. It comes in different shapes. But I manage. Don’t pick at the wound, and it hurts less.”
“Visiting family, then?”
Human nature, isn’t it? Another’s pain distracts from your own. Makes yours seem smaller.
“No. But I went to see the closest soul in the world.”
“Tell me. Three hours to kill. Name’s Oliver.” He offered a hand.
“Boris.” They shook.
“Listen, my Alice packed me fried chicken, pies. Cooks like a dream. Fancy a beer run?” Oliver asked, as if they were old mates.
“Don’t drink. Not hungry either. Help yourself.”
“Fair. So—tell me.” Oliver stretched out, crossing his legs.
“What’s to tell? Loved a girl at school. Lost my head every time I saw her. Never had the guts to say it. Went off to serve. Nearly went AWOL, mad with jealousy.”
“She married while I was away. Had a daughter—by my best mate. Wanted to talk to him, but he asked if the kid was mine. Saw red. Laid him out flat.”
“Was it yours?” Oliver leaned in.
“I told you—never even kissed her. Loved her from afar,” Boris said sharply.
Oliver winced. “Right. Sorry.”
“Suffered for years. Bit my lips bloody seeing them together. Walked miles out of my way to avoid their house. Thought marrying someone else’d fix it. Fat chance.”
“Margaret was a good wife. Knew I didn’t love her, but tried anyway. Didn’t deserve her. Mum adored her. But you can’t force the heart. Couldn’t forget Helen. Nearly moved cities just to stop seeing her.”
“But they left for London. Got easier. Breathed again. Margaret had my son. Proudest day of my life. But we were never a proper family. Always dreaming of Helen. When Margaret died, I wanted to follow. Turns out, life without her meant nothing.”
“Son moved to London with his family. Left me a laptop to stay in touch. Taught me to use it. Turns out I’m a quick learner—started browsing, social media, looking up old friends. Found her one day.”
“Messaged her. Waited. No reply. Thought she’d forgotten me, happy with her husband. Then—a short note. *I remember. Glad to hear from you.* A year of letters. Finally told her I’d loved her since school. She asked why I never said so. Turns out she’d fancied me too.”
“All that time… Wasted. But no complaints about Margaret. Helen’d been divorced for years. Alone all that time. Suggested video calls.”
“We’d talk for hours. Then her grandson moved in—claimed her flat was closer to uni. But I reckon her daughter suspected something, got scared we’d reconnect. With him around, Helen grew shy on calls. We spoke less.”
“So I suggested visiting for a few days. Couldn’t bear missing our chats. She agreed. Booked my ticket, rode to London, nervous as a teen. But when we met—perfect. Hugged like old friends. Stayed up half the night talking. Didn’t sleep a wink. Couldn’t believe we were finally together. Didn’t need anything from her—just to see her, be near her, hear her voice.”
“Three days gone in a blink. On the fourth, her grandson faked illness to skip uni. Helen ran to the chemist, then the shops.”
“He cornered me. Said he saw right through me—that I hadn’t come just to visit. The flat was his, he said. His name was on the deeds. Told me I’d get nothing.”
“I swore I didn’t want it, had my own place, no plans to move to London in my dotage. He didn’t believe me. Started shoving me toward the door. Threatened to call the police, have us declared insane, packed off to a home.”
“Fury tore through me. Not for me—for Helen. For both of us. Grabbed my things—thank god I’d packed light—and left. Now I wonder if I was wrong. What if he’s having her committed?But as the train pulled away from the station, her hand tight in his, Boris realized that sometimes the bravest thing wasn’t staying to fight—it was knowing when to walk away and still finding happiness in the time left.
