The evening train groaned to a halt at East Watanaka Station, doors sliding open with a sigh. A flurry of passengers climbed aboard—umbrellas dripping, scarves fluttering, backpacks bumping shoulders. Among them, Arata tucked himself into a window seat, as he always did, on the quieter end of the compartment.
The chill of the glass seeped through his sleeve as he pressed his cheek gently against it. The world outside was a watercolor blur—lamps bleeding orange halos into the mist, streets glistening with melting sleet. His fingers clutched the edge of his phone, the screen dark for now. His other hand held a worn sketchbook, pages fluttering faintly in the draft.
Arata preferred this hour, this half-busy, half-quiet time when no one paid much attention and he could sink into the quiet folds of his thoughts.
Until she stepped in.
Tall. Graceful. Her silhouette cut across the doorframe like a shadow from a dream.
She ducked slightly to avoid bumping her guitar case against the top of the door. Her short, choppy hair was damp with light rain, clinging to her forehead. Sapphire eyes flicked briefly across the train car, scanning the seats with practiced disinterest.
Then she walked toward him.
Arata stiffened.
Not next to him, surely. Not in this sea of empty seats—
She sat down.
Right across.
His eyes, wide and startled, flitted over her: the polished boots, the crisp black blazer slightly too large on her narrow frame, the guitar case now resting between her long legs. She sat with one arm draped over it, her back straight, chin tilted forward—not arrogantly, but with a quiet confidence, like she'd won battles no one else saw.
She didn't look at him. Not yet.
But Arata was already blushing.
He lowered his gaze, fumbling with his phone screen.
Who is she? he thought. Have I… seen her before?
She brushed her bangs aside, pulling out a pair of wireless earphones she didn't use, and glanced at the fogged-up window. Her reflection looked like a ghost's twin—aloof, unreadable.
The train rolled forward.
A few minutes passed in silence—until two middle-school kids wandered near the door, their chatter loud enough to cut through even Arata's world of stillness. One of them pointed nervously at the subway map and said something Arata couldn't hear, but the gesture was clear—they were lost.
The kid turned toward Arata with a hopeful smile and asked something.
Arata blinked, heart skipping. He flinched hard couldn't find a way to get a way out the weird situation. He trembled, trying making strokes with his fingers.
The kid frowned, perplexed.
Before Arata could try explaining again, a voice spoke from beside him.
"They are asking how to get to the North Island Transfer. They missed their stop." Her lips slow and tenderly parted.
It was her.
She leaned in, peering at the kids with that same cool indifference, but her voice was calm and clear. "You'll need to get off at the next station. Switch to Platform 3, Northbound. Got it?"
The kids nodded quickly, bowing in thanks before darting back down the car.
She sat back, crossing one leg over the other, and finally looked at Arata.
He was already staring.
And blushing.
She raised an eyebrow. "They caught you off guard, huh?"
Arata blinked, then nodded. He moved his hands gently in a gesture, his eyes full of grate.
She blinked once. And then twice. Completely perplexed, trying to figure out what he actually mean to say. Realising, Arata immediately pulled out his phone and typed faster:
"Thank you for helping. I didn't know what they wanted."
She tilted her head and squinted at the text. "You use your phone to talk?"
He nodded.
Her eyes softened, just slightly.
"That's pretty cool."
Arata looked down quickly, hiding behind his scarf. His thumbs hovered above the keyboard. Then, carefully, he typed:
"You have a really calm voice. It suits you."
She stared at the screen. Then at him. The corner of her mouth twitched upward. "...You can hear me?"
He read her lips carefully and shortly stroke his head. Then typed:
"Your lips moved so tenderly and with politeness. It's a calm voice." Her lips parted in mid-air but nothing came out in amusement.
His face burned.
She laughed—low, short, but genuine. "Sorry. That was cute."
Arata looked at her, flustered beyond help. She was still watching him, not teasing, but curious now. Her gaze swept gently over his scarf, his pale lashes, the delicate curve of his jawline.
"Are you a student?" she asked.
He nodded, tapping quickly.
"North Oak Mainland. Art Department."
"Figures," she murmured. "You look like the kind of guy who gets lost in paintings."
Then, tapping her guitar lightly, she added, "South Oak Elite. Music division. I play rhythm and sometimes lead for Kizashi Hoshine."
Arata blinked. Unable to hold on her swift lips movement. Head tilted, he blinked in puzzle.
As she noticed she lipped again— slower and softer this time.
The name stirred something faint and ungraspable in his mind. His fingers trembled as he typed:
"I think… I've heard your band before. Online."
She arched a brow. "Maybe. We're still underground, but we get around. Music's... my everything."
Arata nodded, fingers fidgeting against the edge of his phone.
He typed slowly this time:
"I like… people who make music. I think… I draw them a lot."
That made her pause.
A silence passed between them. Her eyes narrowed slightly, like she was seeing him in a different light now.
"You're interesting," she said after a moment. "Quiet. But... interesting."
He didn't type back. Just smiled. Soft. Shy.
The next stop buzzed on the digital board.
She stood, sliding her guitar back over her shoulder. The train began to slow.
"I'm off here," she said. Then paused.
Looking back at him, she leaned in slightly—close enough that her scent, rain and cedarwood, reached him.
She gently patted his head and mouthed the word slowly:
"Bye."
Then, with a soft smile and a two-fingered salute, she stepped off.
Gone. Like a flash of sound that vanishes before you realize you were even listening.
Arata sat frozen for a full minute.
Then, carefully, he opened his sketchbook and began to draw.
The line of her jaw. The shadow of her eyes. The slant of her bangs.
He'd never learned her name. And she hadn't asked his.
But something in him felt it—
They'd meet again.
And next time, he wouldn't be just a quiet boy with a phone and a blush.
—To Be Continued