Please accept my humble entry for the Valentine's Day competition 2025.
I hope you enjoy it.
Be sure to check out other entries in the competition, and please vote if you think this one is worthy.
Many thanks.
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The train rattled out of Liverpool Lime Street, the hum of the engine vibrating through the seats, the echoes of Kasabian's encore still ringing in my ears. I was wedged into a seat by the window, the carriage packed to bursting with sweaty bodies and the lingering buzz of the gig combined with the usual exodus from a typical night out in Liverpool. The air was thick with beer-breath, shrieks, and off-key singing - everyone belting out "Fire" like their lives depended on it. My legs ached from jumping around all night, but I wasn't complaining. The gig had been excellent, one of the best I'd been to.
And then I saw her. Standing in the aisle. Clutching the metal pole attached to the back of a seat, her knuckles already white from the grip as the train jogged along. Through the bodies all around her, I could make out her short red skirt and the way it hugged her hips, the delicate lace of her black corset wrapping her large breasts and pulling her waist in tight. Knee-high boots that looked like they could do some real damage. But it wasn't just her outfit that caught my attention or her beautiful English-rose face; it was the sadness etched into those features; it was the way she kept blinking, fast, like she was trying to stop something from spilling over. Tears. Tiny, glistening tears streaked down her cheeks, one after the other. She wiped them away quickly as if no one was supposed to notice.
I noticed.
I hesitated for only a second before I stood, ignoring the ache in my legs from the gig.
"Here," I said, nodding toward my seat. "Take it," her plight so out of place on Valentine's night, a night meant for love and celebration, not tears. So out of place that I had to act.
She looked across, startled, her dark brown eyes meeting mine. "Oh, no, it's fine. I'm okay." Her voice was soft, tinged with that distinct Birmingham accent, though she tried to mask it with politeness. Tried to mask her tears with a sniff.
"Seriously," I insisted, stepping aside. "I'm alright standing, honestly."
She smiled weakly, gratitude flickering across her face as she squeezed around other passengers and slipped past me. "Thanks. You're a lifesaver." Her face was even more beautiful close up. The soft curve of her jawline gave her features a delicate, sculpted look. Her cheekbones were subtle yet defined. Her nose was small but refined, slightly upturned at the tip, perfectly proportionate to the rest of her face. Her lips were full but natural -- they looked like they were meant to speak poetry or secrets. Her skin was flawless, pale, angelic. Her eyes, though, even with tears, were the centrepiece. Big and expressive, framed by long, dark lashes that made every blink feel like a small, graceful pause in time.
I leaned against the pole, watching her settle into the seat. Her wavy, auburn hair fell forward over her face as she sat, before she flicked it back over her shoulders with a practiced move. She got herself comfortable, crossing her legs, revealing a flash of the tops of her thighs beneath her short skirt. My stomach tightened. Focus, Ben. This wasn't the time or place for that kind of thinking. But damn, she was stunning.
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The moment he offered me his seat, I felt like crying all over again. Not because I was sad, but because it was the first kindness I'd experienced all night. God, what a disastrous Valentine's Day this had been. All dressed up for nothing. Sitting alone in that restaurant, several glasses of pinot grigio and an alright pasta dish, while the waiter gave me pitying looks. Sitting there, hoping against hope that Jake might show up, even though deep down, I knew he wouldn't. Then I consoled myself with a deep, dark chocolate brownie with loads of whipped cream, which will come back and bite me on the scales. St Valentine can just Fuck Off!
And now here I was, crammed onto a train full of drunk idiots, feeling completely pathetic. Until he appeared. Tall, blonde, with those piercing blue eyes that gave off comfort, security, and plain sexiness. He didn't ask why I was crying. Didn't pry. Just gave me his seat without a second thought. For a moment, I had hesitated; like I wasn't sure if he was serious; like he was trying to hit on me. But I thought, 'sod it, I need a seat, take it'. Murmuring a quiet "Thanks. You're a lifesaver," I slid into the spot he'd vacated.
I sank deeply into the seat, wanting to disappear from everyone's view, pressing my lips together, willing myself to hold it together. Don't cry in public. That was rule number one, surely. But tonight... tonight had been a disaster. I'd spent hours getting ready - straightened my hair just so, squeezed into the corset that made my waist look tiny. I even put on the leather boots I saved for special occasions. All for nothing. What's more, my hair had even gone wavy.
As the train rolled on, I glanced up at the guy who had given me his seat. My eyes still a little wet and unattractively puffy. He was fit - not just gym-fit but athletic-fit, football-fit. His broad shoulders filled out his Libertines t-shirt nicely, and his jeans hung low on his hips. His hair was a mess of waves, like he'd just run his hands through it, strands falling onto his forehead in a way that looked almost deliberate. I couldn't have styled it better myself. His face was slender and defined, a strong jawline and lovely cheeks. His ears, slightly prominent, just enough to be endearing, to soften all his sharp edges. The kind of detail that made him real, made him more than just another handsome stranger on a train. Kind, I thought. Genuine. What am I doing? Why am I analysing him? But I could feel myself relax, just being near him. There was something effortlessly cool about him, like he didn't have to try.
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I couldn't help but glance at her every so often. Who am I kidding? I looked at her so often I was scared she would think I was a stalker. Her perfume had hit me as we had passed - something sweet, fresh, like vanilla and citrus. She was hand-crafted, modelled from the rarest ingredients on earth; even with tear-streaked mascara on her cheeks, she was from the front cover of Vogue. However, it wasn't just her beauty - it was her vibe. She seemed deep, intriguing, with something fragile about her too, like she was holding herself together by a thread. I wanted to ask if she was okay, but didn't want to pry, didn't want to look like a pushy jerk. The way she stared out of the window, her lips pursed, her jaw tight, told me she didn't want to talk about it. Not here. Not now. And that was perfectly fine with me. I could look at her in silence. Trying not to look creepy.
As we arrived into Crewe, the train mostly emptied out. The drunk lads and lassies stumbling off, their laughter fading into the platform, connections heading on to London, or up to the North-East. The air in the carriage at once felt lighter, cooler. My heart leapt as the seat across from her became free and I slid into it, relieved to finally sit down again, stretching my legs out, trying to soothe the aches a little. Excited to be so close to her, able to maybe interact.
"Ah, that's better. A bit more room in here now," I said it casually, trying to make it sound like we were old friends catching up.
She managed a small smile. "Thanks again for the seat. You didn't have to do that."
"My pleasure, you didn't deserve to be squashed against all those guys. Most on here had been to the same gig as me, so wouldn't have been smelling their best!"
She laughed softly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "You could say that. Was the gig good? Who was it?"
"Yeah, excellent. Really good. Kasabian killed it tonight. Been a while since I've seen them."
Her eyes finally lit up - my distraction technique appeared to be working. "Kasabian? That's where you were? No wonder everyone was singing, it makes sense now. I love them."
I nodded, leaning back in the seat. "It's my third time of seeing them. They always put on a terrific show. Worth the trip, for sure. I actually work in a music store, well a musical instruments store, so try and see as much live stuff as possible." I'm maybe over-sharing, but I'm trying to take her mind off things.
