The train rattled along the Connecticut coastline, its fluorescent hum mingling with the muffled quiet of holiday fatigue. The two sat shoulder to shoulder, bags crammed with half-eaten tins of cookies, obligatory gift sweaters, and the faint smell of pine that seemed to cling to them from their parents’ overly adorned living rooms. Elder millennials, they were: neither young enough to believe in Santa nor old enough to claim a permanent seat at the adults' table.
He stared out the window at the December dark, pierced occasionally by the soft glow of passing houses—each one a miniature diorama of someone else's Christmas, someone else's nostalgia. She scrolled through her phone with practiced ease, liking a photo of a high school acquaintance's kid in matching pajamas, then one of her sister’s dog in antlers. Neither spoke for a while. There was an ease to their silence, a language older than their years but younger than their cynicism.
“Do you think our parents were happier at our age?” she finally asked, half her face lit by the screen.
He thought about this for a moment, his breath fogging the glass. “Probably not,” he replied. “But they had fewer options, so maybe they didn’t overthink it as much.”
She nodded, as if this answer was simultaneously comforting and damning. They both worked in fields their parents didn’t understand, fields with vague names like “strategy” and “content.” Their lives were made of things their parents didn’t consider essential: oat milk, therapy apps, and $200 ergonomic chairs. And yet, in moments like this, they envied the linear simplicity of their parents’ trajectories.
The conductor passed by, punching tickets with a perfunctory efficiency, his Santa hat askew. The train’s PA system crackled: “We’ll be arriving in Boston shortly. Happy holidays, everyone.” The announcement was met with a polite indifference from the half-full car.
“Did your mom cry when you left?” he asked, turning to her.
“Of course,” she said, laughing softly. “Yours?”
“Yeah. She tried to give me leftovers, but I told her I couldn’t carry lasagna on the train. She looked devastated.”
The thought of lasagna made them both laugh—too much, maybe, for such a mundane anecdote. But it wasn’t about the lasagna. It was about the moment, the shared absurdity of being loved so earnestly by people who still worried they weren’t doing enough.
Outside, the world blurred—a mosaic of snow-dusted trees and frozen rivers. Inside, the train rocked them into a kind of collective introspection. What was it about trains that made everything feel poetic? They’d flown home for Thanksgiving, but planes lacked the romance of tracks, the steady rhythm that gave thoughts room to breathe.
“I hate how much I love this,” she said, gesturing vaguely at the scene: the train, the night, the feeling.
“Yeah,” he said, smiling. “It’s disgustingly cinematic.”
The train began to slow, Boston’s lights flickering into view. They gathered their things, stepping carefully around the detritus of other passengers—crumpled coffee cups, forgotten scarves. As they stood by the door, waiting to disembark, he turned to her.
“Next year, let’s host Christmas at my place. No trains, no lasagna guilt.”
“Deal,” she said, her breath clouding in the crisp air as they stepped onto the platform. The city stretched out before them, cold and familiar, full of choices they would overthink together.
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