The next morning, the world is gray.
Not metaphorically. Literally.
The sky is gray. The rain is gray. The people look like grayscale NPCs dragged out of bed and dumped onto the train platform by a divine alarm clock with a grudge.
I plug in my earphones and step onto the 7:43 A.M. train.
I walk my five paces.
Left turn.
Window seat, third row.
Empty.
She's not there.
Good. That's good.
I didn't expect her to be there.
Yesterday was a glitch in the system. A rare, chaotic event. Like finding a vending machine that actually gives you the right change.
It's not like I wanted her to be there again.
I sit. I put on the same playlist. "Rain in Blue" comes on. I skip it.
I stare out the window as raindrops race each other down the glass, and tell myself I am not disappointed.
I'm fine.
I'm totally—
…okay maybe 2% disappointed.
2.5%.
Shut up.
---
Day two.
Same routine.
Earbuds in. Music on. Step in. Walk five paces. Left turn. Seat—
Empty.
Still not there.
Perfect.
Amazing.
I feel zero things.
Except maybe a tiny, weird hollowness, like someone forgot to fill in a bubble on a multiple choice test and now my entire emotional scantron is invalid.
Not that I care.
Seriously.
I eat my egg sandwich in complete emotional detachment.
It tastes like cardboard and betrayal.
---
Day three.
I'm not looking for her.
I'm not.
I step onto the train. My music is playing. Lo-fi jazz. The rain's lighter today — more like atmospheric mist than actual weather.
I glance toward the window seat on reflex.
There she is.
Back.
In the same spot.
Leaning against the glass, eyes closed, earbuds in — wait.
Not earbuds.
That's just her hair.
Her phone is dead again. Legendary consistency.
I freeze like an idiot in the aisle.
She looks up. Sees me.
And then, the most baffling thing in the universe happens.
She smiles.
Not a big grin. Not a shy blush. Just a simple, casual, like-we're-old-friends kind of smile.
Then she pats the seat next to her.
Tap-tap.
Like I'm late.
Like this is normal now.
My brain does a weird stutter-step. My feet move without asking for approval.
I sit down.
She pulls out something from her pocket.
It's a candy wrapper.
She sighs, crumples it, and shoves it into her broken bag like it's a trash portal.
Then she turns her head and raises an eyebrow at me.
"Well?"
I blink. "Well…?"
She nods at my chest.
Oh. Right. Earphones.
I hand one to her without thinking.
This time she takes it smoothly, no sarcasm, no hesitation.
The music starts. Something soft, with a warm trumpet lead and slow piano chords. Her head tilts slightly, just enough for her hair to brush my shoulder.
And then—
She hums.
Not loudly. Just a gentle, offbeat little sound. Barely audible. Almost like breathing.
I pretend not to notice.
But I do.
---
We ride like that for ten minutes.
No conversation. No glances.
But something's changed.
The silence isn't awkward anymore. It's not filled with thoughts like What am I doing? or Why did I give this stranger an earbud again?
It's just... quiet.
Like sitting beside someone who fits into your silence instead of shattering it.
---
At her stop, she doesn't say anything. Just takes out the earbud, coils it neatly around her fingers (in a way I definitely never do), and hands it back.
She stands. Pauses.
Looks down at me with that same casual smile.
Then taps the top of my head lightly with her finger.
"Good playlist," she says.
And walks off the train like she didn't just short-circuit my brain.
---
The train moves again.
I stare at the earbud in my hand like it just whispered government secrets to me.
My chest feels weird.
Like a balloon got inflated in there and now it's floating around, bumping into my ribs.
It's not love. Obviously.
It's probably just heartburn from the convenience store egg sandwich.
Still.
I rewind the playlist. Back to the song she hummed to.
I listen to it again.
And maybe again.
Just for analysis.
Scientific reasons.
---
That night, I dream of humming.
And the smell of wet hair shampoo.
And the faint sound of a candy wrapper crinkling in rhythm with the train's wheels.
---