A u was ile stopni ma? 🥵

Описание: That’s me, the friend who’s always ten minutes late to the train station, with a wind-tousled coat and a half-eaten croissant in my hand, because I always stop to help the old lady across the street carry her grocery bags—even when I’m already in a hurry. I tuck a crumpled piece of paper into my pocket, a list of things I want to tell you: the funny thing that happened at work, the song that’s been stuck in my head, and a quiet promise that no matter how late I am, I’ll always show up, with a heart full of warmth and a smile that’s just for you.
Today, the train is delayed by forty minutes, not just ten, and I can feel my phone buzzing in my bag—your texts, one after another, but I don’t answer. Not because I’m ignoring you, but because I know you’re worried, and I don’t want to make it worse by saying “I’m almost there” when I’m still blocks away. Instead, I walk faster, my shoes clicking against the sidewalk, the croissant forgotten in my hand, until I see you standing under the clock tower, your hands in your pockets, your breath fogging in the cold air. You’re not angry, not even a little—you just smile and hold out your hand, like you always do.

We met four years ago, on a rainy day just like this, at this same train station. I was running late for a meeting, my umbrella broken, my papers scattered all over the ground, and you stopped to help me pick them up. You didn’t ask for my name, didn’t even stay to hear me say “thank you”—you just handed me my notebook and walked away, your coat flapping in the wind. I spent weeks looking for you, asking everyone at the station if they knew the girl with the blue scarf and the kind eyes, until one day, I saw you again, waiting for a train, and I ran up to you, out of breath, and said: “I’ve been looking for you. I’m Lila, and I owe you a coffee.”

That day, we missed our trains, and we sat in the little café next to the station, drinking hot cocoa and talking until the rain stopped. You told me you were moving to the city, that you didn’t know anyone, that you were scared of being alone. I told you I’d be your friend, that I’d show you around, that you’d never be alone again. And I kept that promise—through every move, every new job, every heartbreak, I was there, even when I was late. Because that’s me, the friend who’s never on time, but who’s always present; who might forget to text back, but who will drop everything to be with you when you need it most.

Today, you tell me you’re moving again, this time across the country, to a place where you don’t know anyone, to chase a dream you’ve had since you were a kid. You’re scared, you say, scared of starting over, scared of losing the life we’ve built together. As you talk, I take your hand, my thumb brushing over your knuckles, and I don’t say “it’ll be okay”—not right away. Because I know that’s not what you need to hear. What you need to hear is that I’m not going anywhere, that no matter how far apart we are, I’ll still be your friend, the one who’s late to our video calls, the one who sends you care packages with your favorite snacks, the one who’s always cheering you on.

The train finally arrives, its whistle echoing through the station, and we stand up, our hands still intertwined. You hug me tightly, your face buried in my shoulder, and you say: “I’m going to miss you. I’m going to miss your late arrivals, your half-eaten croissants, your silly stories.” I hug you back, tighter, and I say: “I’m going to miss you more. But I’ll come visit, I promise—even if I’m late. And when you come home, I’ll be right here, at this train station, waiting for you, just like I always do.”

You pull away, smiling through your tears, and you say: “Thank you. For being my friend, for being late, for being you.” I smile back, wiping a tear from my cheek, and I reply: “There’s nothing to thank me for. That’s me, the friend you deserve. Now go—chase that dream. And I’ll be right here, waiting for you to come home.”