She widened her eyes, then squinted.
A single point appeared from deep within the tunnel.
She stood near the middle of the platform, northbound side. Not too many people waited around her, just a few latenight commuters, a few awkward couples on midweek dates. She held her arms slightly away from her body. Her jeans clung to her legs and her back felt sticky underneath her lightweight t-shirt. Sweat pasted her hair to her forehead. The summer heat had seeped through the streets down into the tunnels, turning the underground maze into a giant steamroom. No one talked; no one held hands. Everything perspired.
Her heart raced.
The approaching train pushed hot air through the station. Its nearing, thunderous momentum shook the platform. The train’s lights grew larger and soon she saw its whole face. She saw the front windows; she saw the door you can’t open from the inside. She saw the driver. She took a deep breath.
She timed it.
She closed her eyes.
For a split second, her body stayed mid-air.
Silence surrounded her as the train slammed into her, punched that last breath from her lungs, bumping her forward a few feet before she fell onto the tracks.
She figured not to jump over the space between the rails, on the chance of the train passing over her and maybe even allowing her to survive. She tumbled and bounced between the rail nearest the platform and the far rail.
And, the third, high-voltage rail.
The brakes screeched. The train lurched. But she did not hear or feel this. She did not hear witness screams. She did not hear voices of loved ones in her mind or see flashes of friends’ faces. She did not smell her skin burn. She did not feel ribs crack or organs crush or limbs sever or her own breathing arrest; her own corpse, a tattered lump.
Her eyes fell open.