At this point, I've accepted that she's never coming back.
Hikari Fujimiya — chaos gremlin, splitter thief, jazz criminal — has either transferred schools, been abducted by rogue band members, or ascended to another plane of existence where music only plays in one ear.
It's the fourth day.
My sketchbook is now 30% her face. Possibly 40% if you count variations. I've also listened to the Next Stop playlist enough times that Spotify asked if I'm okay.
Even the train seems different. Less motion. More weight.
I sit in our usual seat. Out of habit. Or muscle memory. Or emotional masochism.
Earbuds in.
No humming.
No her.
Then—
"Oi."
I flinch so hard I nearly headbutt the window.
There she is.
Breathing. Real. Alive. Late.
Carrying a convenience store bag, hair slightly damp like she just fought the weather and lost.
---
"You look like death," I say, voice catching halfway between "relief" and "what the hell."
She grins weakly. "Flu," she mutters, collapsing beside me like she owns the air I breathe. "Four-day nap. Doctor said I needed fluids. I chose melon pan instead."
She rips open the packaging with her teeth and starts devouring the pastry like she hasn't seen food since the Meiji Era.
Crumbs fall onto her lap. She brushes them off like it's a ritual. One she's mastered.
My heart is doing things. Very stupid things.
---
"You didn't reply," I say.
Not accusing. Not dramatic. Just... the truth.
She pauses mid-bite. Looks at me.
"Oh," she says. "I didn't know you'd text."
My face must say something, because she adds quickly: "I was asleep the whole time. Seriously. Like a coma with cough syrup."
I stare.
She blinks.
Then mumbles: "You really texted me?"
I pull out my phone and show her the message.
She squints at it like it's written in ancient runes.
> "Hope you're okay. Just checking."
Her mouth twitches into a crooked smile.
Then she says, so softly I almost miss it, "That's kinda cute, Minato-kun."
I regret everything instantly.
---
We sit in silence for a bit.
But not the bad kind.
Not the "I wish I had said something" kind.
It's... neutral. Quiet. Like we're trying to recalibrate a connection that was paused but never lost.
She finishes her melon pan and wipes her hands on the wrapper.
Then, like nothing happened, she pulls out the splitter jack and waves it like a white flag.
I hand her my phone.
She doesn't press play.
Instead, she plugs everything in.
Hands me one earbud.
And then?
Nothing.
No music.
Just silence.
Intentional this time.
---
I glance at her. She's staring out the window.
The city blurs past — wet roads, sleepy people, umbrellas bobbing like tiny jellyfish.
Her reflection stares back at her. Or maybe at me.
I want to say something.
But I don't know what.
So I do what I always do.
Nothing.
Until she finally whispers:
> "I missed this, too."
My hand tightens around my bag strap.
I don't respond.
Because there's nothing I can say that won't sound stupid or sappy or like I've been spiraling for four days straight.
So I just let it hang there.
Like a song we both heard and never skipped.
---
Our shoulders touch.
Not a lot.
Just barely.
Just enough.
But neither of us moves away.
And in that moment, I realize something weird.
Something dangerous.
I missed her voice, yeah.
And her teasing, too.
Even her garbage music and her tragic fashion sense and her bag that keeps breaking.
But most of all?
I missed the space between us.
The tiny, quiet distance we fill together.
The invisible thread of morning routine and accidental intimacy.
That's what hurt the most.
That's what feels warm again now.
---
We don't talk for the rest of the ride.
She hums, softly, not even to music.
I sketch something small in the corner of my notebook. Not her this time. Just her bag. With a bandaid on it.
She sees. Smiles.
Mutters, "Drama."
I shrug. "Symbolism."
She fake gags. "Ugh. You're the worst."
But she's smiling.
And I'm breathing easier again.
---
When her stop arrives, she grabs her bag — now held together with what looks like shoelaces and hope — and stands.
Before she walks off, she turns and says:
"Don't look so shocked, Minato-kun. I always come back."
Then, after a beat—
"…But next time, bring me a melon pan, too. For emotional balance."
The doors open. She disappears into the crowd.
And this time, the silence that follows doesn't feel empty.
It feels earned.
Like an aftertaste.
Like a verse waiting for its chorus.
---
I stay seated. Pull out my sketchbook again.
Flip to the page where I drew her from memory.
I add a small detail now — a melon pan in her hand.
Then I write, in tiny lettering under the sketch:
> "She came back with crumbs on her lips… and my morning heart intact."
And then I press play on our playlist.
The real one.
Next Stop.
Track 1 begins.
And I smile.
Just barely.
---