We stayed up that night , talking about everything : our childhood, the games we used to play, the silly fights, the late-night adventures, the things we lost, and the dreams that changed along the way. The room was dimly lit, the warmth of familiarity filling the silence between words. There were moments when we just sat there, not speaking, only letting the past sink in. The kind of silence that doesn’t feel empty but full.

Time slipped away unnoticed, and when I looked at the clock, it was already 4:33 a.m. The night had passed like a whisper. I had to catch a 6:00 a.m. train, and reality set in like a slow tide. I sighed, got up, and started packing my clothes. My hands moved mechanically, folding each shirt, tucking everything in place, but my mind was elsewhere. My friend sat on the bed, watching quietly, maybe feeling the same weight of departure that I did.

I could feel the drowsiness creeping in, my body craving rest after a sleepless night, but sleep was not an option now. “Make me some tea,” I said, rubbing my eyes. “I need to stay awake.” He nodded and walked out of the room. The sound of boiling water and clinking cups filled the quiet air.

At 5:20 a.m., I took the first sip, the warmth of the tea spreading through me, chasing away the exhaustion, if only for a moment. We left soon after, stepping out into the cool early morning air. The streets were mostly empty, only a few vehicles passing by, their headlights cutting through the last remnants of night. The sky roads stretched ahead of us, quiet and endless, the city still wrapped in sleep. It felt strange, moving through a place that was always bustling during the day but now stood still, waiting for the morning to fully arrive.

The railway station came into view. Even at this hour, a good number of people were there—some sitting on benches, some standing with luggage by their side, some pacing back and forth as if lost in thought. The familiar hum of a station waking up filled the air—announcements echoing through the speakers, the faint chugging of distant trains, the occasional whistle breaking the rhythm.

As I stood there, waiting for my train, I realized how odd it is—the way we leave places, the way we carry moments with us, the way goodbyes never really feel complete. No matter how many times we say them, something always lingers, something always stays.