The Train Window
You always notice how the smoke curls out of his cigarette before you notice him.
John sits by the window in his studio, guitar across his knees, strings dead silent. You stand there, hugging your schoolbag, waiting for him to say something. You’re sixteen, your shoes are too tight, your hair is too messy, and you wish your voice was softer when you speak to him.
“Alright, Y/N?” he says, without looking up.
You want to say “No,” but you say, “Yeah.”
You are nothing like him, people always say, but then they also say you look exactly like him. His mouth, your mouth. His nose, your nose. His eyes, your eyes—but yours water easier.
Sometimes you think about what it would be like if he was the father that told you jokes over breakfast or drove you to the record shop just to listen to albums in the car. Instead, he’s always in this room, with empty teacups stacked like a fortress around him, tape reels scattered, and scribbled lyrics you’re not allowed to read.
Once, when you were ten, you tried to play the piano in the corner.
He yelled, “Not now!”
You flinched, froze, and backed away. He didn’t look up then either.
You went to your room and cried into your pillow, biting it so no one would hear. The next morning, he slipped you a chocolate bar and ruffled your hair, muttering, “Sorry, love,” but he still didn’t look at you, not really.
He has a soft voice when he’s tired, though. One night you found him asleep on the couch, one arm slung over his face, guitar sliding to the floor. You quietly picked it up so it wouldn’t break. His eyes opened, and he said, “You’re a good kid.”
You nodded, cheeks burning, and went back to your room, clutching that sentence like it was worth a million pounds.
You don’t call him “Dad.” You call him “John.” It’s what everyone else calls him, and it feels safer.
Sometimes, you hear him playing songs about peace and love, and you wonder why it feels so different inside your house.
One rainy afternoon, you stand by the window, the train tracks across the street glistening. You imagine getting on a train, leaving, and seeing if he would notice.
“Going somewhere?” he says behind you.
“No,” you say.
He pauses, standing there awkwardly with a mug of tea, glancing at you, then at the rain, then back at you. For once, he doesn’t look away.
“You look just like me, you know,” he says.
You don’t know what to say, so you just nod.
And it’s quiet, but it’s not heavy. It’s just quiet. You don’t bond well, but you exist in the same house. You exist in the same room sometimes. You share the same eyes.
And maybe that’s enough for now.