between stations

a moment of unclaimed grief: flash fiction

This piece is inspired by Har’s flash fictions from her post Abstract Art.

Isha boarded the metro, her eyes instinctively scanning for a metal ledge where she could rest. She found a sliver of space and settled in, her luggage gently placed on her lap. Fighting the urge to doom-scroll, she chose instead to study the faces of strangers—as though browsing book covers in an unexplored aisle of her favourite bookstore.

Her attention snagged on a woman’s phone conversation. The woman seemed unperturbed about being overheard. She wasn’t close enough for Isha to catch the words, but her body language said enough. Isha watched her, looking away intermittently so as not to intrude—whatever privacy still existed on public transport.

Before she realised it, her surroundings began to blur. The background clatter softened, receding into something distant. It was raining cats and dogs onto her luggage. There felt like an invisible string between them, transferring excess energy—as though it had somehow become Isha’s responsibility to release it.

Clueless, and embarrassed by the sudden onset of tears, she tried not to draw attention. Her eyes seemed to have a mind of their own; she was no longer in charge of the downpour, much like a monsoon unannounced. To make it less conspicuous, she cupped her face, elbows resting on her backpack, gaze fixed on the floor, letting her tears soak into its upper layer.

Time slowed. It continued longer than she could measure.

A tap on her shoulder startled her back into the present. Someone told her her phone had slipped and fallen below. In that moment, consciousness returned—awkwardly, abruptly—to reality.

The metal hum of the metro filled her ears again.

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