The man standing beside me on the platform at Pearse Station is thinking about killing himself.

The man standing beside me on the platform at Pearse Station is thinking about killing himself. I wasn’t sure yesterday, but I am now. There is something about his eyes, something about the way he is holding his briefcase that makes me think it is empty – all of it, from the suit he is wearing, to the carefully polished shoes on his feet, to the pretend urgency of the pretend paperwork he has been carrying around all week. All month, perhaps? Or longer?

Your name is Michael, I’ve decided. Michael, listen to me: your well-cut, nicely pressed mid-range suit gives you away. The heels are scuffed. You’ve lost weight and your trousers don’t fit you so well anymore. They’ve been trailing on the ground as you walk the streets, killing time.

Tell your wife, Michael. Tell her. She’s not just the mother of your two small children – she’s your partner in life and you loved her as such long before all the weight of responsibility that came next. I know that you still do. I can tell by the way you blink and twist your wedding ring as you watch the Drogheda commuter train pull into the station; noisier, screechier, heavier than the Malahide DART that passed through before it.

I know that look, Michael. I’ve seen it in this station before, and on the train. The exhaustion ringing your eyes is not workday fatigue. It’s the haunted look of a man growing accustomed to the grip of fear.

But trains only ever crawl through this station. They never move with any kind of serious speed, do they? I know that Michael cannot be thinking seriously of doing something now, yet still my heart beats faster as he stares unblinking at the oncoming headlights with a twitchy sort of fascination. He steps closer, and then closer again to the white line painted on the platform’s edge. The train is moving faster than I had thought, or perhaps it’s just its hefty weight that blows a gust of warm, dry exhaust into my face as the rain-spattered windows slide by, inches from Michael’s still-staring eyes. His left hand opens. The cardboard coffee cup he had been holding hits the concrete edging as it falls into the gap between the train and the platform and splashes cold, black liquid on the turning wheels. Michael drops his head to stare.

Without thinking, I reach for his elbow. He turns towards me, instinctively stepping back from the slowing train carriages. His eyes are startled, unsure of what I know. A half-breath passes before I realise that he is now watching me, waiting.

‘This is my train,’ I lie. ‘Would you like half a Twix?’

I don’t wait for an answer, but press the chocolate into his cold, dry palm with a quick, embarrassed smile. The doors slide shut. The train begins to move. His eyes stay on me, expressionless, from behind the yellow line.