I wasn’t supposed to be on that train. I booked the ticket in a fog of heartache, just hours after crying in my car outside my ex’s apartment. I’d sworn I was done with him—but the truth is, I nearly went back.
So I threw a few things into a bag, grabbed the first ticket I could find, and told myself I just needed to breathe. A shift in scenery. Anything to escape the loop of regret and self-doubt I couldn’t seem to shake.
And then I saw the dog.
A golden retriever, sitting upright with a kind of confidence that made it seem like he was the regular commuter—not me. One paw on the table, tail elegantly tucked over the seat. His human was relaxed, sipping coffee and chatting with the woman across the aisle. But the dog—he fixed his gaze on me.
Not just a glance. A real look. Head tilted, ears up, eyes locked on mine. I smiled before I could stop myself.
“He’s very social,” the man said, like that was explanation enough.
I nodded but couldn’t stop watching. There was something almost grounding in the way the dog held eye contact. Like he could sense I was barely holding it together. Like he’d seen dozens of women sitting in that same seat—tired, broken, pretending to travel light when they were carrying so much more.
Then he moved.
He stood, walked over, and gently placed his chin on my leg.
I froze. His person looked surprised—apparently this wasn’t normal for him. But the dog didn’t care. He just looked up at me like, Yeah. I get it. You’re safe.
I don’t know why, but I started talking. To the dog. Quietly, like it was just between us. I told him things I hadn’t told anyone—the infidelity, the guilt, the shame of staying too long, of nearly going back.
And when the train slowed into the station, the man surprised me with a question that stopped me cold.
“Do you want to come with us?” he asked, scratching behind the dog’s ears like he was checking in with him, too. “We’re headed to a cabin near Lake Crescent. Just for the weekend.”
I blinked. “You don’t even know me.”
He shrugged, completely at ease. “Buddy seems sure. And honestly, you look like you could use a break. No pressure.”
The dog thumped his tail against my leg like he agreed. Against all logic—and maybe because I was just too tired to resist—I nodded. Something in me trusted them.
The drive was quiet but comforting. The man introduced himself as Sam. Buddy, he explained, had been by his side since losing his wife two years ago. “He has a gift for knowing when people need company,” Sam said with a soft smile. “Looks like today, he picked you.”
Lake Crescent was stunning. Glassy water nestled beneath towering trees. The cabin was simple, warm, and welcoming, with mismatched furniture and a fireplace that Sam lit effortlessly.
And for the first time in weeks, I let myself breathe.