(*photo credit to Negativexposive*)
I thought about her for most of that day. I imagined her walking slowly, purposefully, towards the platform. Knowing. I wondered if she'd left anybody at home: if she'd left anybody. I assumed she probably had.
I thought about whether she'd had breakfast that morning: whether she might have chopped fresh strawberries onto her porridge or had poached eggs on brown toast, yolks perfectly runny, because they had always been her favourites. And perhaps, if you had a choice, you'd choose your favourite as your last. Perhaps.