There's something strange happening.
And no, I'm not talking about aliens or apocalyptic signs — though honestly, if either showed up right now, I wouldn't be surprised. Life's been feeling suspiciously off-script lately.
What I mean is:
I've started waking up early. Voluntarily.
That's not just strange. That's medically concerning.
I, Minato Sora — professional ghost, jazz zombie, and chronic morning hater — now check the time, check the weather, and check my earbuds like a man preparing for war.
Only it's not war.
It's her.
---
It's been a week.
Seven days.
Seven train rides.
Seven shared earphones, chaotic music debates, philosophical arguments about grilled squid lyrics, and — somehow — absolutely no apocalypse.
Just… routine.
We board.
We sit.
We split the earbuds.
We talk.
We listen.
She leaves.
I stay.
Every time, I think it'll get old.
Every time, it doesn't.
---
Today's ride begins with her flopping into the seat beside me and sighing dramatically like life itself has personally offended her.
"My math teacher," she says, "is a colonizer of joy."
I blink. "You mean he gives too much homework?"
"No. I mean he invades peaceful civilizations of my brain and takes everything beautiful."
"…So yes. Too much homework."
She sighs again, more dramatically. "I was being poetic, but whatever."
She yanks out her splitter with a flourish and holds it up like she's a DJ about to drop a sick beat.
"Today's theme," she says, "is redemption. You play something that proves you have taste beyond heartbreak soup."
I grunt. "You're lucky I don't just play Gregorian monk chants to spite you."
She gasps. "You know about monk chants?"
"...No?"
She cackles like I just failed a pop quiz.
---
As the music plays, I find myself watching her again.
Not staring. Just… observing.
She always shifts a little when she hears a melody she likes. She taps her fingers when she's thinking. Sometimes, she hums before the chorus hits, like she already knows the song even when she doesn't.
And when she smiles — the small, tired kind — it's not loud or exaggerated.
It's quiet.
Like the way the sun rises.
---
Today, I do something ridiculous.
I open my sketch notebook.
I haven't drawn in months. Maybe longer.
But during one track — a slow instrumental she picked — she leans her cheek against the window, eyes half-closed, rain blurring behind her.
And my pencil starts moving.
Not because I planned to.
Not because I want anything from it.
But because… something about this moment feels like it deserves to be remembered.
Even if only by me.
Even if I never show her.
Which I won't.
Because I have dignity. And a strong sense of self-preservation.
She'd probably say I made her forehead too round or complain I didn't draw her "emotionally dramatic aura."
Still.
I finish the sketch before we hit her stop.
Fold the page. Hide it.
She doesn't notice.
She's too busy typing something into her phone.
"New playlist," she says, flicking her screen toward me. "I'm naming it Next Stop."
I stare at the screen.
Sure enough: a blank playlist with one song added.
The song we both didn't talk about. The romantic one.
Dangerous.
She stretches, stands, almost forgets her bag (again), then turns to me before leaving.
"You're improving," she says.
I raise an eyebrow.
"Musically. Slightly less depressing this time."
"Thanks."
"I said slightly."
The doors open. She steps out.
But before they close, she turns back and says, quieter now:
> "It's weird. I don't even like mornings. I don't like anything at all…"
She pauses.
Then looks at me.
> "Then you appear."
The doors slide shut.
And I sit there, one earbud dangling, a hundred thoughts crashing into each other like bumper cars in my chest.
I try to replay what she said.
Every word.
Over and over.
But the only one that echoes is the last.
> You.