He doesn't want to see you anymore.
Not too far away, you hear the clang and rumble. You have time.
You dig your phone out of a coat pocket, pull a glove off with your teeth.
You text: "You were mostly why I stuck around. Out of reasons, now."
As soon as you see the text's sent, you toss the phone into the snow and put your glove back on.
It's a moonless night, but even the glowing clouds illuminate the snow enough for you to find your way to the stand of pine that grows ten or so meters from the bend in the train track. It's a blind curve for the engineer and a short dash for you. A perfect place. You've even tested it with a stopwatch.
When the rumble and and glow of the light are right, animal adrenaline crashes into your bloodstream, and your legs pump like perfect machinery and you scream madly as you rush toward the tracks.
Even if the engineer sees you, inertia wins the day.
You collapse on the track, gasping, and scramble to place your throat on it. As the roar of the train approaches, you press your throat into the freezing steel track, gagging yourself to try to keep the back of your head under the cattle guard.
A bit of hair, bone, and cartilage are insufficient to impede the steel in its work. The train goes on.
The engineer did notice and gets on the radio. An hour later, the men, the hard men, the rail authority men, the police and fire men are there with their dizzying lights and rumbling diesel engines. They're tired and grumpy, but somebody's wife brought doughnuts and a giant thermos of coffee, and this'll be overtime.
The coroner picks up your head and makes a morbid joke. The guys within earshot laugh.