I wasn’t supposed to be on that train.
I booked the ticket in a fog of heartache, just hours after sitting in my car outside my ex’s apartment—engine off, tears streaking my face, trying to convince myself not to knock on his door. I’d sworn I was done with him. Sworn I wouldn’t crawl back.
But the truth? I almost did.
So I threw a few things in a bag, grabbed the first departing train I could find, and left. I told myself I just needed a change of scenery. A little breathing room. Anything to escape the cycle of regret and self-doubt I couldn’t seem to shake.
And then I saw the dog.
A golden retriever—poised, calm, sitting like he’d done this a hundred times before. One paw resting on the table, his tail curled neatly to the side. If anyone looked like a seasoned commuter, it was him. His person, a man maybe in his forties, was relaxed, sipping coffee and chatting quietly with a woman across the aisle.
But the dog—he was looking at me.
Not glancing. Looking.
Head tilted slightly, ears perked, eyes locked on mine with a kind of quiet certainty. I smiled before I could stop myself.
“He’s very social,” the man said, as if that explained it.
I nodded, but the dog didn’t look away. There was something… grounding in his gaze. Like he knew. Like he saw me—not the rushed traveler with puffy eyes and a tight smile, but the woman unraveling inside, trying hard to look like she wasn’t.
And then, without hesitation, he got up.
He walked over, calm and sure, and gently rested his chin on my knee.
I froze.
The man looked surprised—apparently this wasn’t something the dog usually did. But the retriever didn’t care. He just looked up at me like, Yeah. I know. It’s okay.
And something in me cracked.
I started talking—softly, just to him. Not loud enough for anyone else to hear. I told him everything. The betrayal. The guilt. The shame of staying too long, of almost going back, of forgetting who I was just to keep someone who didn’t deserve me.
He listened. Or at least, it felt like he did.
And when the train began to slow into a station, the man leaned over and asked something that caught me completely off guard.
“Do you want to come with us?” he said casually, scratching behind the dog’s ears like he was asking for permission. “We’re headed to a cabin near Lake Crescent. Just for the weekend.”
I blinked. “You don’t even know me.”
He shrugged, easy and calm. “Buddy seems sure. And honestly… you look like you could use a break. No pressure.”
Buddy. The dog.
He thumped his tail gently against my leg, like he agreed.
And I don’t know what possessed me—maybe it was exhaustion, or maybe I was just done saying no to the parts of me that wanted peace—but I said yes.
The drive was quiet. Comfortable. The man introduced himself as Sam. Buddy, he explained, had been with him since his wife passed away two years ago.
“He just knows,” Sam said, watching the road. “When people need someone. He always knows.”
Lake Crescent was breathtaking—still, silver water cradled by tall, whispering pines. The cabin was small but warm, with mismatched furniture and a fireplace Sam lit like second nature.
We didn’t talk much that night. But we didn’t need to.
Buddy curled up next to me on the couch, resting his head on my foot like we’d done this a thousand times before.
And for the first time in weeks, I exhaled.
Not just a breath. A release.
I didn’t find answers on that train. I didn’t find a grand epiphany or a clear plan for what came next.
But I found a dog who saw straight through me. And a stranger kind enough to make space for my hurt without needing to fix it.
Sometimes, all it takes to begin again… is being seen. Really seen.
And sometimes, the one who sees you best isn’t even human.
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