I TOOK THE TRAIN TO CLEAR MY HEAD—AND SAT ACROSS FROM A DOG WHO KNEW TOO MUCH I wasn’t supposed to be on that train. I’d booked the trip last minute, after a night of crying in my car outside my ex’s apartment. I’d promised myself I wouldn’t go back to him again—but I almost did. So I packed a bag, grabbed the first ticket out of town, and told myself I just needed air. A change of scenery. Something other than the swirl of regret and second-guessing. And then I saw the dog. A golden retriever, sitting straight up like he belonged there more than I did. One paw on the table, tail draped elegantly over the seat like this was his usual commute. His owner looked relaxed, sipping coffee and chatting softly to the woman across the aisle. But the dog—he looked at me. I mean really looked. Head tilt, ears perked, eyes locked on mine. I couldn’t help but smile. “He’s very social,” the guy said, like that explained it. I nodded, but I kept staring. There was something weirdly comforting about the way the dog held eye contact. Like he knew I was hanging on by a thread. Like he’d seen a hundred women in my exact state—heart cracked open, pretending they were just going somewhere casual. And then he did it. He stood up, padded over, and rested his chin on my leg. I froze. His person looked startled, like this wasn’t normal behavior. But the dog didn’t care. He just looked up at me like, Yeah, I know. It’s okay. I don’t know what came over me, but I started talking—to the dog. Quietly. I told him everything I hadn’t told anyone else. The cheating. The guilt. The shame of not leaving sooner. And when we pulled into the station, his owner asked me something that caught me completely off guard. (continue reading in the first cᴑmment)