At some point, it becomes a routine.
Same train. Same time. Same seat.
Same girl with sleep hair and a broken bag.
At first, it was silent. Then it was musical silence. Then it was humming silence.
Now, it's almost… comfortable.
Which is terrifying.
Humans shouldn't get attached to things they don't understand. Like clowns. Or emotions. Or a girl who hums slightly offbeat to jazz every morning beside you like it's completely normal.
Today, she's already seated when I get on. Bag still fraying. Her bangs are sticking up on one side like she slept on a cactus. There's something nostalgic about her chaos now, like a glitch in a game that you're starting to like.
As I sit down, she waves lazily and holds up something between her fingers.
A pink Star Candy.
I blink.
"You want it?" she asks, as if this is a reasonable way to greet a person at 7:43 in the morning.
I shake my head. "Too early for diabetes."
She shrugs and tosses it in her mouth. Crinkle, crunch. I swear she does it on beat with the music.
Earbud exchange happens like clockwork now.
Left ear: me. Right ear: her.
Middle space: unspoken agreement not to talk unless one of us bursts into flames.
But today?
She pulls the earbud out after a minute, pauses the music on my phone, and just… stares at me.
"Okay, mystery boy," she says. "Time to exchange names before this turns into a true crime podcast."
I blink. "Why would it turn into—"
"Because every day you sit next to me, don't talk, and keep offering music like a jazz vampire."
"…Jazz vampire?"
She nods solemnly. "Lurking in silence. Feeding off my vibes. Probably writing poetry in your head right now."
"…That's… oddly specific."
She squints at me.
"Don't dodge. Name. C'mon. I'm already invested. I even downloaded Spotify Premium for this morning romance."
I sigh, adjusting my bag, pretending I'm not slightly enjoying this chaotic monologue.
"…Sora."
"Last name?"
"…Minato."
She leans back, pretending to be hit by a revelation.
"Minato Sora," she repeats dramatically. "Sounds like a boyband member who never smiles."
I give her a look. The tired kind. The "I didn't ask to be perceived today" look.
"And you?" I mumble.
She grins, proud of herself like she just cracked a level-5 encryption key.
"Fujimiya Hikari. Late-sleeper. Music lover. Professional bag-breaker."
She holds up her sad, slowly-dying tote like it's a badge of honor.
"Professional?"
"Oh yeah. This is my third one this semester. I've broken more bags than boy hearts."
"…That's concerning."
"It's called character development."
---
I glance at her out of the corner of my eye. Her legs are folded up, chin resting on her knees like she belongs in a window-seat movie montage. There's a red pen mark on her wrist, like she fell asleep doing homework. Or drawing on herself. Or fighting a small octopus. Hard to tell.
"So… Sora-kun," she says, poking my shoulder lightly with her knuckle.
I flinch. She notices. Smirks.
"Are you shy, or just pretending to be mysterious?"
"…I'm quiet."
"So mysterious, then."
I sigh.
"You always like this?"
"Only on days ending in Y."
I hate how fast she comes up with this stuff. Like her brain is permanently logged into a meme server.
---
The train sways slightly. A guy sneezes three rows down. Someone's ringtone goes off — a horrible trap remix of Beethoven's Fifth.
Hikari hums under her breath again, this time to her own beat. I'm starting to think she lives her entire life in a soundtrack.
I press play on the next song. Something upbeat this time.
She raises an eyebrow.
"Oooh. Switching it up?"
I shrug.
"Thought you might appreciate something less… heartbreak-jazzy."
She mock gasps. "You mean I've been judging your taste this whole time and you've been evolving?"
I give her the tiniest smirk. She catches it like it's a wild Pokémon.
"You do smile!" she exclaims. "Just barely. Like a government employee."
"…I'm revoking earphone rights."
"Too late. I've already memorized the wire texture. You can't unpair me."
This girl is a walking paradox. She looks like she loses fights with vending machines, but talks like she's writing a rom-com in her head at all times.
---
As her stop nears, she stands and stretches — arms over her head, revealing a bandaid on her wrist with a tiny doodle on it. Is that a sad cat? Possibly crying?
She grabs her sad, half-zipped bag and slings it over one shoulder like a soldier heading to war.
Before she leaves, she leans close and stage-whispers:
"Don't get too attached to the silence, Minato-kun. Tomorrow, I'm bringing coffee and chaos."
Then she's gone.
---
I sit there.
Earbud still warm in my hand.
And for the first time in a long time, I'm not looking forward to the music.
I'm looking forward to… her voice.
God help me.
---