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The platform was a strip of cold light and one vending machine that hummed like broken insects. She sat cross‑legged on a bench with a denim jacket smelling faintly of cigarettes and orange juice. The city had stripped itself down to a few late buses and distant sirens, neon leaking into puddles like bruises.

When the sun showed up as a dishonest pale, they split a diner pie under florescent mercy. Milo wrote their names in the condensation on the window, then erased them with the back of his wrist. “We’ll come back,” he said, already planning the next goodbye.