Some mornings start loud.
Hikari crashes in with hair like a cyclone, a pastry in one hand, earbuds already tangled, and a half-broken bag she claims is "rebellious."
Other mornings start soft.
Today doesn't start at all.
Because when she walks in, she doesn't say anything.
No "yo."
No "guess what I forgot again?"
No snack commentary.
Not even her usual dramatic flop into the seat.
She just sits.
Gently.
Quietly.
Which is terrifying.
---
I glance at her.
Hair? Still messy. Standard Hikari chaos.
Eyes? Not sleepy — just… faded.
Bag? Still being held together by rubber bands and a receipt from a donut shop.
So what's wrong?
She doesn't even reach for the splitter.
Instead, she holds out her hand wordlessly — palm open — like she's requesting a sacred item from a temple priest.
I give her the earbud and my phone.
She plugs it all in with practiced fingers.
But the music doesn't play.
She scrolls through the playlist.
Looks at the tracks.
Then hits shuffle.
Track 2: "Evening Rain."
---
She listens.
Doesn't hum.
Doesn't comment.
Just stares out the window like the city is telling her secrets.
I sit there, pretending I'm not panicking inside like a middle schooler who just got left on read by his crush after sending "wanna hang?"
I wait for her to make fun of my jazz pick. Or call it "funeral piano." Or say it sounds like a sad fish floating downstream.
But she doesn't.
She just... listens.
And the silence?
Is loud.
---
By the second track, I'm sweating emotionally.
Is she mad? Did I mess up?
Maybe the sketch was too much?
Maybe the melon pan line offended her donut loyalty?
Maybe she did read my old message and thought, "Ugh, clingy much?"
My thoughts spiral so fast they generate wind resistance.
She finally speaks — not until the fourth song.
Just a quiet murmur. Almost to herself.
> "Do you ever feel like… this is the only part of your day that feels like you?"
The train hums beneath us.
People shift. Someone coughs.
A schoolgirl sneezes somewhere nearby with aggressive volume.
But her words hang there.
Heavy.
I glance at her.
She's not looking at me.
Still watching the window.
But not like she's seeing anything.
More like... hiding in the blur.
---
I don't know how to respond.
If I say something dumb like "same," it'll sound fake.
If I stay silent, I'll regret it.
So I do what I always do when my brain short-circuits:
I draw.
Or rather—
I reach into my bag and pull out the sketch.
The sketch.
The one I drew during her absence.
The one I almost threw away five times.
The one where she's smiling like she's trying not to — the Hikari that only appears for a second between jokes and chaos.
I hold it out, not looking at her.
Like a peace offering. Or a mirror.
She glances down.
Sees the edge of her own smile in pencil.
She freezes.
Then — slowly, like she's afraid it'll vanish — she takes the paper.
Traces the lines with her eyes.
Not her fingers.
Not her voice.
Just her gaze.
And for once… I don't talk.
Which feels insane.
Because my inner monologue is practically kicking over chairs yelling, "SAY SOMETHING, IDIOT."
But I don't.
Because this moment isn't about me.
It's about her.
And whatever this weight is that's clinging to her this morning.
---
The train slows. Her stop is near.
She doesn't move yet.
Still holding the sketch, folded gently in half.
Still quiet.
Then — just as the doors hiss open — she tucks it into her bag.
Carefully.
Like it's fragile.
Still no words.
Just a glance. Not even a full look.
A flicker of eye contact. Barely a heartbeat.
Then she stands.
Leaves.
The seat beside me feels strangely warmer after she's gone.
Not because she was sitting there.
But because she took something with her.
And left something else behind.
---
I sit alone the rest of the ride, unsure if that silence was a goodbye, a thank-you, or just... one of those days.
The playlist continues.
But I don't hear it.
Too much of me is still stuck in that window reflection, wondering what she saw in the blur.
---
Later, at home, I draw again.
Just lines this time.
No face.
Just motion. Hair in wind. A figure stepping off a train.
And underneath, I write:
> "Sometimes, the quietest people carry the loudest songs."