The train station is busier than usual. The air is thick with the mingling scents of coffee from the nearby café and the faint aroma of baked goods from a pastry stand, each wafting through the crowd. I let out a sigh of frustration, the noise around me amplifying my irritation. The rhythmic clatter of wheels on metal tracks, the distant roar of a departing train, and the chatter of commuters create a cacophony that swirls around me. Of course, on the one day I'm running late for a meeting that could propel my career, it feels like half the city decided to crowd the platform. I glance at my watch-7:20 a.m. I still have ten minutes to make it, enough time if the train isn't delayed.

I join the line, fumbling to pull out my pass. At least the line is moving quickly, punctuated by the occasional beeping of turnstiles as people swipe their cards. As I slip through the turnstile and head toward the B12 platform for Grand Central, I catch sight of her. She's standing near the edge, her hair neatly tied in a bun, red, square-shaped glasses framing her face perfectly. I can't look away.

Then, she catches my gaze. For a fleeting moment, everything around me fades-the chatter, the echo of footsteps, even the droning announcements overhead. The station's PA system crackles with updates, blending with the faint rhythm of a street musician strumming a guitar in the corner. Her dark brown eyes lock onto mine, and her smile takes my breath away.

"Excuse me," she says, her voice soft yet clear, cutting through the surrounding noise.

"Oh-I'm sorry. After you," I stammer, my words tumbling out awkwardly. She beams a wider smile and steps past me, boarding the train and choosing a seat near the exit.

I shake my head, trying to snap out of it. Focus, Jensen. I board the train and settle into a seat a few rows behind her. The overhead speaker crackles to life as the doors slide shut, drowning out the sounds of the bustling platform. "This is the B12 Express to Grand Central. Estimated time of arrival: 7:30."

I pull my file from my bag and start flipping through it, rehearsing the key points I need to cover in my presentation. My nerves hadn't bothered me earlier, but now, as the train lurches forward and the vibrations of the tracks resonate beneath me, my chest tightens. I take a deep breath, hold it, and exhale slowly, attempting to calm the rising anxiety.

Out of the corner of my eye, I glance at her again. She's engrossed in a book, her brow slightly furrowed in concentration. The soft rustle of pages turning adds to the train's rhythmic soundscape. I can't help but steal another look. But the moment her eyes flick up to meet mine, I whip my head away, heat flooding my face. "Smooth," I mutter under my breath with a wry chuckle.

That's when it hits me-a strange sensation that I can't quite place. It isn't the usual pre-meeting jitters. No, this feels different. Heavy. My chest tightens further as a chill creeps down my spine. I scan the faces of the other passengers, searching for something out of the ordinary. The murmur of conversations blends with the soft thumping of music coming from someone's earbuds, yet everything appears normal, and yet, the unease lingers.

I check my watch. 7:24 a.m. Just six more minutes. But instead of relief, the sinking feeling in my gut deepens. Suddenly, a loud boom shatters the air, followed by screams. Before I can process what's happening, the world turns upside down.

When I finally regain consciousness, the world is eerily quiet, the silence a stark contrast to the chaos that had preceded it. I lie amid the twisted wreckage of the train, the once orderly rows of seats now a jumbled mass of metal and debris. Dazed, I push myself upright, my movements sluggish and disoriented.

It's a miracle that I'm unscathed, my body free of the bruises and cuts that should mark my ordeal. Around me, the scene is one of devastation, the air heavy with the weight of lives shattered in an instant. The question that burns in my mind, insistent and unyielding, is how I survived when so many others have not.

Staggering to my feet, I survey the wreckage, a hollow feeling settling in my chest. The landscape is surreal, a nightmarish tableau of destruction and loss. My mind struggles to piece together the fragmented memories of the crash, each image a disjointed puzzle that refuses to align. As I rummage through the twisted metal, I begin to feel faint and collapse back to the ground. 

Paramedics arrive, their voices and movements a blur as they pull me from the wreckage, wrapping me in blankets and rushing me away in an ambulance. My body feels like it has been dragged through the underworld, battered yet numb, but the questions-the overwhelming need to understand-gnaw at me with each passing moment. 

My vision fades in and out as I hear a male voice. "We have a male in his late twenties. He's unconscious but doesn't appear to have any major injuries, if any. We are en route, five minutes ETA." 

There's a crackle of static from the radio. "Roger that. Any other survivors?" 

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A pause hangs in the air. "So far, he's the only one."

When I open my eyes, I find myself staring at a ceiling-a sterile white expanse, with harsh fluorescent lights flickering faintly above me. My ears ring, and my head pounds like a drum.

"Ah, Mr. Wells. You're awake," a voice says, pulling me from my haze. I turn my head toward the sound. A middle-aged man stands at the foot of my bed, dressed in a white coat, clipboard in hand. He has a neatly trimmed beard and perfectly styled hair-a Ryan Reynolds lookalike, if Ryan Reynolds moonlighted as a doctor.

"What happened? Where am I?" My voice comes out rough and scratchy. I clear my throat and add, "And you can just call me Jensen."

The doctor hesitates, his expression unreadable as he flips through the papers on his clipboard. "You're at Northview Hospital," he begins carefully. "You were in a very serious accident. A train crash, to be precise."

My blood turns cold. The B12. The memory rushes back: the screech of metal, the screaming, the sudden jolt as everything goes black.

"Am I... okay?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

"More than okay," he replies, his tone almost bewildered. "Jensen, you were the sole survivor. Every other passenger on that train... I'm sorry, but they didn't make it. The fact that you're here, without a single scratch or broken bone, is nothing short of a miracle."

The doctor's words echo in my mind: sole survivor. A miracle. It doesn't feel real. I struggle to comprehend what he's just said, staring at him as if he might suddenly take it all back.

"I don't... I don't understand. How?" I ask, my voice trembling. "How am I the only one? I was sitting right there with everyone else."

He nods solemnly, setting the clipboard down on a nearby counter. "Believe me, we're asking the same questions. The authorities are still investigating, but from what we've gathered, another train was on the wrong track. It collided with the B12 at high speed." His gaze softens. "No one else survived, Jensen."

My chest tightens as images from the train flash through my mind-the crowded platform, the woman with the red glasses, her warm smile. My head starts pounding harder.

"Jensen?" The doctor's voice brings me back. "Are you in pain? Any discomfort?"

I shake my head, though the word pain doesn't feel strong enough to describe the weight crushing me. "No," I lie, my throat dry. "I... I don't think so. Just a headache."

Dr. Montgomery nods, scribbling something on his clipboard. "That's understandable. You've been through severe trauma. If the headache persists, we can run some additional tests, but physically, you seem to be in remarkable condition."

He pauses, his tone softening even more. "That said, I need to stress that healing isn't just physical. There are counselors here who specialize in trauma. You might find it helpful to speak with one when you're ready."

I glance down at my hands, turning them over as if I might suddenly notice some hidden injury. They are steady, clean, untouched. How? My suit, though filthy and torn, doesn't even have a tear where I could've been scraped.

"Can I... go home?" I ask, my voice quieter now. "I just need to get out of here."

The doctor hesitates, then stands. "I understand. You're free to go, but please take this." He hands me a buisness card--his "Call if you need anything, Jensen. I mean that."

I nod, taking the card. "Thanks."

Dr. Montgomery gives me a reassuring pat on the shoulder as I walk out of the room. My legs feel heavy, each step taking more effort than it should. The fluorescent lights above buzz faintly, and the antiseptic smell of the hospital stings my nose.

As I move down the sterile hospital hallway, the distant hum of muffled conversations and the occasional beep of monitors fill the air. My thoughts are in a whirlwind-memories of the train, flashes of faces I'll never see again, and the doctor's words repeating over and over: You were the sole survivor.

I pass a row of chairs in the waiting area, the kind of plastic seats meant to be sat on, not for comfort but for convenience. A few people are scattered around-an elderly woman flipping through a magazine, a nurse walking briskly with a clipboard. None of them notice me, but I feel their presence like a weight pressing against my chest. I want to get out of here, to escape the smell of antiseptic and the buzzing lights, but my legs feel like lead.

As I reach the automatic doors leading to the hospital exit, I notice someone walking just ahead of me. Her hair is tied up in a familiar bun, and something about her posture tugs at the edges of my memory. I stop short, my heart thudding in my chest.

When she turns around, my breath catches. It's her-the woman from the train. Her red glasses glint under the fluorescent lights, and her dark brown eyes fix on mine, just like they did earlier that morning. 

Hey there," she says softly, her voice wrapping around me like a familiar embrace, laced with genuine concern. "Are you okay?"

For a moment, I'm frozen, my thoughts swirling in confusion. I can hardly believe my eyes. She shouldn't be here-she can't be here. Everyone else is gone. How is she standing in front of me, alive and well?

"Uh... yeah, I'm fine," I finally manage to stammer, though my voice betrays me with a hint of hesitation. "Just... on my way home."

She narrows her eyes, studying me with an intensity that feels almost protective. "You don't look fine. Are you sure you're okay? It's perfectly okay to not be okay."

I stare at her, a strange sense of relief washing over me in her presence. I want to ask how she's here, how she survived when so many others didn't, but the words stick in my throat, leaving me silent.

She rustles through her coat pocket, the sound breaking the tension. "Here, take this." She pulls out a business card and hands it to me, her expression steady. "I'm a trauma counselor here at the hospital. If you need anything-day or night-just call that number."

I glance down at the card, feeling the weight of her offer settle in my chest. "Thank you," I manage to say, my voice thickening as tears begin to well in my eyes. "I really appreciate it."

Her gaze softens, and for a moment, I feel as if she's looking right into my soul. "You're not alone in this, okay? Many people are struggling right now. It's important to talk about what you're feeling."

I look back up at her, a mix of gratitude and uncertainty swirling within me. "I didn't think I'd find anyone to talk to here. I thought I'd have to figure this out on my own."

"It's common to feel that way," she replies, her tone soothing yet firm. "But reaching out is a brave step. Just know that I'm here if you need support-it doesn't matter what time it is. You deserve to be heard."

For a moment, I simply stand there, holding the card tightly, feeling the flicker of hope igniting within me. "I'll keep this with me," I say, my voice steadier now. "Thank you for... being here."

A small smile tugs at the corners of her lips, and there's a warmth in her gaze that makes my heart race slightly. "It's easy to be here for someone who seems like they could use a friend," she says, her voice dropping to a more personal tone. "I know how isolating it can feel."

There's a connection in her words that resonates deeply with me, a shared understanding that momentarily bridges the gap between us. "Maybe we could... talk more sometime?" I suggest, a hint of hope creeping into my voice. "Not just about the heavy stuff."

She glances at me thoughtfully, her expression thoughtful. "I'd like that," she replies, a spark of something unspoken passing between us. "Just remember, it's okay to ask for help. We all need it sometimes. Take care of yourself."

With that, she turns to leave, and I watch her go, the card in my hand feeling like more than just a lifeline. It feels like the beginning of something unexpected, a flicker of possibility lingering in the air as I stand there, heart racing and mind swirling with thoughts of what could be.