Signal Failure

Signal Failure

The evening begins with a thin rain, the kind that turns the pavement into a canvas of blurred watercolours. She opens her umbrella with a small shake. He steps out from the lobby a moment later and pauses under the awning as if to gauge the weather, though his eyes drift towards her.

“Heading to the station?” he asks, as if it’s a new idea that’s just occurred to him.

She nods. He lifts his collar and they fall into step, not quite side by side. Their reflections keep pace in the darkened shop windows: two doppelgangers drifting through a parallel world.

Cars hiss past. She adjusts her grip on the umbrella; he shifts slightly to avoid brushing her arm.

They pause at the crossing. The red signal’s reflection glows on the wet asphalt. She watches the light; he watches the traffic. When the green man appears, they step forward at the same instant, their strides briefly aligned.

⁑

The next morning, the platform smells of coffee and damp concrete. She stands near the pillar, coat buttoned to her throat, one hand in her pocket, the other holding a paperback she pretends to read. He arrives via the stairs carrying a paper cup, steam rising in the chill air.

They notice each other at the same moment. He approaches and stands beside her, not too close. She tilts the book slightly, enough for him to see the cover. He nods and raises one eyebrow.

“You’re early,” she says.

“So are you.”

A train rushes past without stopping, rattling the rails. A pigeon flaps it wings. A child drops its teddy bear. A man swears into his phone. She leans away from the gust. He shifts closer, a small adjustment that causes their shadows to touch.

When their train arrives, they board together but sit apart in facing seats. She turns pages in her book without registering the words. He studies her profile, a faint reflection in the glass partition by the doors.

At the next stop, a man squeezes into the seat beside her. She draws her knee inward. He notices. She notices him noticing.

⁑

Days accumulate with quiet inevitability. More often than not, they leave the office at similar times, though never by arrangement. Sometimes one waits for the other without acknowledging it.

He holds the door for her without comment. She presses the lift button for both of them. He steps aside on the pavement so she can walk on the inside. She slows her pace when he falls half a step behind.

One evening, the sky is the colour of a bruised Braeburn. They walk towards the station, both quiet. She has a folder tucked under her arm. He lugs a briefcase.

A cyclist swerves past them, too close. She flinches. His hand reaches out —by instinct or reflex, not intent—and brushes her elbow. The contact is brief, almost imaginary. So light, it could be denied.

She stops walking. He withdraws his hand.

“You okay?” he asks.

She nods, though she doesn’t move.

The cyclist disappears around the corner, oblivious to the near miss.

He clears his throat. “I didn’t mean...”

“I know.”

The city continues to move around them while they stand still.

“We’ll miss the train,” she says at last.

He nods. They continue walking.

⁑

The next morning, she arrives late. He’s already on the platform, shoulders slightly hunched against the cold, both hands jammed in his pockets. When he sees her, something in his posture lifts.

“Overslept?” he asks.

She shrugs. “Something like that.”

She doesn’t elaborate.

When their train arrives, it is crowded. They board and stand close together, holding the same overhead rail. Her knuckles brush his. He doesn’t move his hand. She doesn’t move hers.

When the carriage jolts, she shifts her weight. He steadies himself, not touching her, but close enough that she feels the warmth of his body emanating from beneath his coat.

At the next stop, a seat opens. He gestures for her to take it. She shakes her head. He sits. She remains standing, her hand still on the rail above him.

He looks up at her. She looks down at him, then past him and out of the window.

⁑

A week later, a new colleague joins their team. Young, confident and bright eyed. Prone to laugh loudly in meetings. She asks him questions. She stands too close when she does. He answers politely and steps back when she leans in. But the geometry of the office shifts.

She notices. He notices her noticing.

⁑

One evening, the office empties early. She stays late, typing slowly as if the keys are resisting her fingers. He stays too, though he has nothing urgent to finish. He watches the swirl of his screensaver and pretends to study a column of figures.

The new colleague leaves at six, waving cheerfully. He waves back. She keeps her eyes on her keyboard.

At seven, he stands. “You heading out?”

She closes her laptop. “Yes.”

They walk to the lift. The descent is quiet and slow.

“She’s just being friendly,” he says.

“I didn’t say anything.”

He nods. “Right.”

The lift hums. The numbers tick down.

“You don’t owe me an explanation,” she says.

“I know.”

The doors open. They step out.

The street is warm, almost springlike. People linger outside cafés. A busker plays something soft on a guitar. They walk without speaking.

At the crossing, the red light pins them in place.

“Do you want a drink?” he blurts. Christ, I said it.

She hesitates. A car passes, headlights sweeping across their faces.

“I don’t know,” she says.

He nods. “Okay.”

The light changes. They cross.

⁑

The next morning, she isn’t at the station. He waits through two trains. She doesn’t come.

At the office, she arrives late, hair damp from the rain. She sits at her desk, opens her laptop, doesn’t look at him.

He glances over once. Twice. Three times. She doesn’t notice.

At lunch, she leaves alone.

In the afternoon, she laughs at something the new colleague says. The sound carries across the room, bright and discordant. Like a note played on the wrong instrument.

He keeps his head down.

That evening, she leaves early. He leaves late. Their paths don’t cross.

⁑

The next day, they leave at the same time again. Not intentionally. Coincidence, or something like it.

They walk toward the station. The sky is pale, almost colourless. She holds her coat closed with one hand. He carries a takeaway cup.

At the corner, she stops. He stops too.

“We don’t have to walk together,” she says.

“I know.”

She waits.

“Do you want to?” he asks.

She looks at him. “I’m not sure.”

He nods. “Alright.”

They continue.

On the platform, the train is delayed. A long delay this time. People sigh, shift, check their watches.

She stands near the pillar. He stands beside her.

“They said signal failure,” he says.

“That’s always the reason.”

A gust of wind pushes her hair across her face. He reaches out —hesitates— lets his hand fall.

She tucks the hair behind her ear.

“Are we okay?” he asks.

“We’re not anything,” she says.

He looks at her. “Aren’t we?”

She doesn’t answer.

The announcement crackles overhead. The train is approaching at last.

She steps forward. He stays where he is.

When the train arrives, she boards. He doesn’t.

She turns, surprised. He lifts a hand; not a wave, just a gesture of acknowledgement. More as if he’s a member of platform staff signalling the train to leave.

The doors close. The train pulls away.

⁑

The next morning, she arrives early. He arrives late. They miss each other by minutes.

At the office, they exchange a brief nod. Nothing more.

At lunch, she sits with colleagues. He walks past her table, carrying a sandwich. She doesn’t look up.

In the afternoon, he asks her a work question. She answers with precision, nothing extra.

At five, she leaves. At five-thirty, he leaves.

⁑

Days pass. Their routines shift into something more abstract; still parallel but no longer intersecting. They walk the same streets, breathe the same office air, stand on the same platforms. But the choreography is not synchronised.

He holds the door for someone else. She presses the lift button alone. He walks on the outside edge with no one beside him. She doesn’t slow her pace.

⁑

One evening, weeks later, they leave the office at the same time again. Pure coincidence, for one last time.

They walk toward the station. The air is warm. The sky is soft. The city hums.

At the crossing, the red light contrives to hold them still.

“How’ve you been?” he asks.

“Fine,” she says.

He nods. “Good.”

The light relents. They cross.

At the station entrance, she stops. He stops too.

“This is where we split,” she says.

“Is it?” he asks.

She looks at him. “I don’t know.”

He looks back. “Neither do I.”

A train arrives below, the sound rising up the stairs from the concourse.

The moment hovers —thin, trembling and unfinished. Then the crowd swoops and they are carried in different directions, neither turning to see where the other goes.