When the leaves turn brown, warmth disappears quickly.

One day the wind still carries the last traces of fall; the next, winter has arrived without asking permission. That night, the cold hits my face like shards of ice as I walk down the street, searching for something—anything—that might take the pain away.

There is a particular kind of hopelessness that belongs to a winter night.

Through frosted windows, I catch glimpses of families inside their homes. Children play in the snow and later gather around fires, wrapped in blankets, drinking hot chocolate. The adults pour peppermint schnapps into their drinks and laugh. Christmas lights blaze against the darkness.

I watch it all from the outside.

And then a tear runs down my cheek.

Every Christmas I missed comes back at once. Every bad decision. Every person I hurt. Every moment that somehow led me here, wandering these streets and wondering how much longer I have before I finally admit the place I need to be is home.

Trains pass constantly.

I’ve watched what feels like a million of them by now. Sometimes I wonder about the people sitting behind those windows. Where are they going? Who is waiting for them when they get there?

What I do know is that they aren’t here doing what I’m doing.

Somehow, that is enough to make me cry.

I have everything I’ll need for the next few days. That’s supposed to make me feel better. At least I won’t freeze—or maybe I just won’t be able to feel myself freezing.

There are some things, though, that I can’t numb.

I miss my dog.

I want him with me so badly that it physically hurts, but bringing him into this would be cruel. He deserves better than a train station floor and a version of me who can’t even take care of herself.

So I cry again.

This time because I’m cold.

Because I’m hungry.

Because I’m alone.

The train station has become my bedroom.

There is a small bench near the elevator where I curl myself into as little space as possible. The station isn’t really heated. Instead, there’s a button on the wall labeled PRESS FOR HEAT.

Every fifteen minutes, I press it.

Heat spills into the station for a little while, and I pull my knees toward my chest and wait for my body to stop shivering.

Then someone catches a late-night train.

The doors open.

Winter rushes inside.

My entire body shakes for a few seconds until the doors close again.

Then I’m safe.

Or at least what I’ve started calling safe.

Morning comes too quickly.

Shit. Monday already?

My white sweatshirt has new stains from the night before. I’m embarrassed by them. Embarrassed by myself. So when the morning commuters begin pouring into the station, I put on my sunglasses, sit beside my bags, and pretend I’m waiting for a train.

That’s the strange thing about looking like everyone else.

People believe you are.

When someone asks if I’m okay, I tell them, “I’m waiting for a train.”

They accept the answer and walk away.

I drop my head into my hands.

What is wrong with me?

Just go home.

By the time the Monday morning rush thins out—twenty people becoming ten, ten becoming five, until only a couple remain—I move behind the vending machine.

This is my chance.

It’s 6:18 a.m.

I’ve learned the schedule well enough to know how long I have. Trains come every fifteen to thirty minutes, and I’ve become careful about timing everything around them. I don’t want anyone noticing what I’m really doing here.

I get my rig ready.

I mix my third shot of heroin for the day.

Third.

And the sun has barely come up.

Outside, the wind is brutal. I can’t risk going out there. Not because I’m afraid of the cold anymore, but because I’m afraid the wind will carry away whatever drugs I have left.

So I stay inside.

I wait.

I calculate.

I hide.

The sun begins to set again, and anxiety starts crawling through me.

I have people I could call.

Why don’t I?

I have a family somewhere wondering where I am, wondering what I’m doing, maybe imagining things that aren’t even as bad as the truth.

Three days have passed.

No calls.

No messages.

No contact with anyone I love.

And standing there in that station, I suddenly feel as though I’ve reached the edge of something.

I think about taking my last shot.

Then taking one step off the platform.

There is another train coming in fifteen minutes.

Game over.

For one terrifying moment, the thought feels simple.

One step.

That’s all.

Then, somewhere in the distance, I hear it.

A train whistle.

It grows louder as the train approaches, and the sound pulls me violently back into my body.

I’m still standing on the platform.

I’m still here.

My heart is beating.

I’m still alive.

And if I’m still alive, there has to be a reason.

There has to be some goddamn reason.

I look toward the tracks.

Then toward the station behind me.

And one thought rises above everything else:

Why won’t I just go home?