It’s 1989. I’m sitting in a train and suddenly I’m aware of a man staring at me with concern and compassion. I notice he’s elderly and grey and he reminds me of days from my past when I was surrounded by elderly relatives who were caring and fun. I realise why he’s staring at me: tears are flowing down my cheeks. I make no noise, I can hardly breathe for fear that I’ll explode.

I’m not sure if it’s raining outside or if it's the tears that make visibility poor. I struggle to gain control, realising that I must be creating quite a stir amongst fellow passengers who don't know what to do about a young girl so obviously distressed and alone. He offers me a hanky and asks if he can help.

If only he could. I’m 23 and my heart is broken. Will I ever be happy again? What should I do? Go home to a lonely room, to a room full of memories, to a night so long that I’d do almost anything to make the morning come, or do I go back to the man I love — knowing that he can never be mine, and knowing that the following day I will be on the same train with the same tears, with yet more passengers looking at me with sympathy. I accept the hanky and say “I’m fine”. I stay on the train, for how long I’m not sure, because now it’s dark and the choice needs to be made so I go to my lonely room full of memories and pray that the morning will come quickly. Mornings always make things look better. At least that’s what my mum always says.

I’ve survived the night, the sun is shining but am I feeling better? No, my heart is still heavy, my mind is muddled. The problem remains the same: my love is for a man who is forbidden because he is of one religion and I another, so I simply say goodbye.

It’s now 2009, again I’m sitting in a train and the man opposite me has grey hair, and suddenly I recall my train trip in 1989. Did I make the right decision to say goodbye? The answer is yes — now I’m a mother, a wife, a successful professional and financially secure. I’m finally happy and hope that he is too, for he was my first true love.

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