the sunset rises in the morning;

blouse, depressed, depression
from Pexels;

The train’s door closed behind me with a thud. I glanced at my wristwatch and it mocked me with 9:15am when it knew I had to be at work by 10am. The sea of corrupted businessmen, holy agents, old mothers, broken fathers and rusted youth swarmed the cabin’s small space. The whiffs of our dilemmas corroded the tarnished air with false vanilla.

At the far end, I found the empty seat and I surged my way without excuses to claim it. “Still a writer for that newspaper?” said a familiar voice beside me. Every day, he managed to save this particular seat. “Of course. How’s Mary Anne?” I asked.

“She’s inviting you for a dinner.”

He knew I would never accept the invitation. I would descend on the next stop; I looked at Pierre and his playful demeanor died. “I’m glad you’ve settled down.”

As I hit the last step of the stairs, I thought the Italian sun would meet me, but the European frost kissed me to make me suffer from nostalgia. The clock hit 10am, but I did not feel the need to hurry any longer; instead, I weaved my stolen, free time to reminisce the reasons why I felt the sunset this morning.


Thank you for reading this story. If you want to talk about random things with me, do not hesitate to reach me through my “Contact” page. All the best love, my dear.


let me hold your words before you leave;

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