The Woman on Platform 8

I first saw her on the platform on my way home from work a few weeks ago. She had an aura about her that made people stop and stare. Then I saw her again. And again. Our twice weekly commute into London Waterloo in sync. She was always so poised, so pretty, so perfect. Everything I'm not. In my head, her name's Lucia, and she's a glamorous catwalk model from Milan who commutes from Winchester to attend casting calls in the city. But this morning she's late, barely making the train as the doors close. She doesn't take her usual seat, instead staying close to the doors. . . Then it hits me - she looks terrified. I feel compelled to help her, and against my better judgement I stand up and move towards her. It's then the illusion crumbles. Her name's not Lucia, but Allie. Not a model, but a woman in need of dire help. She tells me she's in danger, that she's done something dreadful and I don't know why I do it, but I promise to keep her safe. But I shouldn't make promises I know I can't keep. Because my life isn't as picture perfect as I like to pretend, and I can't stop wondering if maybe I'm not the only one pretending. . .