So close, yet so far. That was the phrase that echoed through her mind as she stood at the edge of the platform, watching the train pull away, leaving nothing behind but a gust of wind and the distant screech of wheels fading into the tunnel. She had been just seconds too late. The doors had closed as she reached out, breathless from the sprint, her fingers nearly brushing the cold metal. It wasn’t the train, really. It wasn’t about the missed ride or the inconvenience of waiting. It was about everything it represented. The timing that never worked. The opportunities that slipped past. The effort that never seemed enough. In that moment, she could feel the weight of every near-miss settle in her chest like a stone.
She leaned back against the pillar, letting the coolness of it press into her spine, grounding her. Around her, the world kept moving—people walked by, voices murmured over phone calls, and announcements echoed off the tiled walls—but for her, everything had paused. That was the thing about being so close. It wasn’t failure, not in the usual sense. It wasn’t falling flat or not trying. It was almost. Just almost. A whisper away from success, from resolution, from connection. And somehow, that made it hurt more.
She thought back to the call she had received earlier that day. A job interview. The kind she had been working toward for months. Rewriting her resume, practicing answers, networking, sending out applications that vanished into the void. Finally, a response. A scheduled interview. And now, because of a missed train, she was probably going to be late. Maybe not by much. Maybe they would understand. But maybe not. Maybe this was another in a long line of just-missed chances. She closed her eyes, imagining how she would explain herself. The subway delays, the timing, the sprint through the station. Would it be enough?
The worst part was knowing how much she cared. If it had been something minor, something inconsequential, she could’ve let it go. But this mattered. Like so many other things she had come close to before. Relationships that almost worked, dreams that almost came true, moments that felt like the cusp of something real, only to dissolve just before the breakthrough. It was exhausting, standing so often at the edge, feeling the warmth of what could be just beyond reach, and watching it slip away.
But she pushed off from the pillar and took a breath. The next train would come. She would go, explain, show up anyway. Because that was all she could do—keep showing up. Even when everything felt too far gone. Even when the pattern repeated, and the setbacks made it hard to keep hope alive. She told herself that showing up counted for something. That maybe one day, the timing would finally align. The train would wait. The door would open. The moment would be hers.
Still, as she sat on the next train, her reflection in the dark window seemed to mock her resolve. The face looking back was tired, uncertain. Was this resilience or foolishness? How many times could she get close and still believe it was worth it? How many rejections, how many missed chances, before it became self-inflicted? The train lurched forward, the city outside a blur of motion, and she closed her eyes again, trying to believe that effort was enough. That caring deeply, even when it hurt, meant she was still alive, still trying.
She reached the building with minutes to spare—barely. Her pulse still racing, her palms still damp, but she was there. She signed in, took the elevator, and found herself in a sterile lobby with soft lighting and piped-in music. The receptionist offered a polite smile, asked her to take a seat. She did, trying to calm the storm inside her. She went over her answers in her head, rehearsing one more time. When they finally called her name, she rose, smoothed her shirt, and followed. It went quickly. A blur of questions and responses, of nods and scribbled notes. She did her best, she spoke clearly, she smiled. But when she left the room, she couldn’t tell if it had gone well. Maybe she had said too much. Maybe she had forgotten something important. So close.
She wandered outside, back into the air and noise of the city, unsure whether to feel relieved or disappointed. She had done it. But had she done enough? There was no way to know. She walked, turning corners without thinking, letting the rhythm of the pavement under her feet distract her from the gnawing doubt. The city moved around her, indifferent. She was just another person moving through it, with hopes and fears invisible to the people she passed. It struck her again how many people were probably feeling the same thing. Chasing something. Missing something. Almost there, but not quite.
She stopped in front of a café, not because she was hungry, but because she needed to sit. Inside, the clink of cups and hum of quiet conversation made a kind of comforting background noise. She ordered tea and took a seat by the window. Outside, people rushed past, umbrellas open against a sudden drizzle. She watched them, wondering what they were late for, what they had almost reached. She wondered if anyone ever really felt like they had arrived, like they had it all together. Or if life was mostly about chasing something just out of reach.
Her phone buzzed. A message. Her heart skipped—was it from them already? No. Just a friend checking in. She typed a quick reply, then stared at the screen, her thumb hovering. She wanted to write, “I’m fine.” But she paused. Because she wasn’t, not really. She was tired of getting so close. Tired of being optimistic only to be disappointed again. Tired of trying to convince herself it would all work out. But she didn’t want to sound bitter. So she wrote, “Rough day. Almost missed an interview. Not sure how it went.” And her friend replied, “I’m proud of you for going. Let me know what happens.” Simple words, but they softened something in her.
She sipped her tea, letting the warmth spread through her. It reminded her that she was still here, still moving forward. That every “almost” was still a step taken. Maybe not the final step. Maybe not the one that changed everything. But forward, nonetheless. And forward had to count for something.
The drizzle turned to rain, and the city blurred behind the windowpane. She thought of all the times she’d felt this way—on the edge of something, almost grasping it, then watching it drift. The college she didn’t get into. The friend who drifted away. The love that ended before it fully began. The projects left unfinished. The nights spent dreaming of a different life, only to wake up in the same place. It was all so close. And yet.
But the thing was, she kept trying. Kept hoping. Because even if the door had closed today, another might open. Even if the answer was no, at least she had asked the question. Even if she had missed the train, she had run for it. And in a world where it would be easier to stop running, easier to decide it wasn’t worth it, she had chosen movement. That had to mean something.
There was a kind of bravery in almost. A kind of quiet heroism in standing back up, in reaching out again, even after the last time didn’t work. Because while success was clean and satisfying, the almosts—the near misses, the close calls—those were the moments that built something deeper. Resilience. Grit. Compassion. Understanding. A kind of knowing that couldn’t be taught, only lived.
So she finished her tea, stood up, and stepped back into the rain. The city smelled like pavement and damp leaves. The kind of scent that reminded her fall was fully here, and winter wasn’t far behind. But she pulled her coat tighter and kept walking. Because maybe, somewhere down this street or the next, something would click. A yes instead of a maybe. A door held open instead of closed. And maybe not. But either way, she would keep going. That was the only way forward.
And even if she never quite caught the train exactly when she needed it, even if the answers didn’t always come, she knew now that the act of reaching—of wanting, of trying—was its own kind of destination. So close, yet so far. But not nothing. Never nothing. Always something. Always hers.
