Tomorrow, she will be the girl on the night train.
It was late at night, on the London Underground, the northern line screeched as she drifted into the landmark woven seat.
Commuters, shoppers, diners – on and off through the sliding doors, she slumped into the sway of the night train.
Looks from across the carriage, she swayed from side to side.
Keeping an ear open for the conductor to announce her station.
Eyes glancing from across the carriage, they didn’t know this was her usual situation.
Leaning back, legs stretched out, slumping into the sway of the night train.
Off the carriage. Up the escalators. Through the barrier.
Leaving the station onto the quiet cobbled street, slipping away into the night.
As relaxation morphed into caution figures danced through the shadows and voices echoed through the wind.
She was safer being the girl on the night train.
Under the streetlight. Over the zebra crossing. Through the alley way.
Headlines flashing through her mind.
Bright clothes, streetlamp lit path, location: on– check, check, check.
Her heart rate increases as the distant sound of movement is carried through the terraced lined streets.
Fumbling for her keys hundreds of metres before reaching her door, they could always be used as protection.
Fingers starting to cramp from the cold, summer nights not too far in the distance.
It was warm, bright, safe on the night train.
Front door in sight, she sped up as she saw her finish line.
Checking once more for people in sight, keeping an eye out for those lurking in the shadows.
The key clicks and it unlocks – she can breathe.