---
Weekends used to be fine.
Objectively meaningless, occasionally annoying, sometimes okay.
They were laundry and sad convenience store lunches. Occasional cram school. A walk around the neighborhood, pretending you had somewhere to be.
Now, weekends suck.
Because she's not on the train.
Because I'm not either.
---
It's Saturday morning, 9:18 A.M.
I open my playlist.
"Next Stop."
Track 4: Hikari's humming off-beat to lo-fi trumpets.
Not the official title, but that's how I remember it.
I listen with one earbud in. The other's still tangled — maybe on purpose. Like my fingers aren't ready to undo it without hers nearby.
---
At 10:03 A.M., I send a message.
> [Minato]: "Hey."
Two hours later.
> [Hikari]: "Not on a train. What's up?"
> [Minato]: "Exactly. Let's fix that."
> [Hikari]: "…You asking me out, jazz-boy?"
> [Minato]: "I'm asking you to meet me at the secondhand bookstore near west exit. The one with the weird cat and smell of regret."
> [Hikari]: "That place's haunted."
> [Minato]: "So are you."
There's a pause.
Then she replies:
> [Hikari]: "1 hour. Don't be weird."
> [Minato]: "Can't promise that."
---
She shows up in exactly 67 minutes.
Hair slightly messy. Oversized hoodie.
No makeup, no mask, no performance.
She looks like herself, minus the armor.
I raise a hand in greeting.
She rolls her eyes. "You said bookstore. Not awkward standing."
"Didn't realize punctuality came with violence."
"I'm a punctual menace."
"Clearly."
---
We go inside. The bell jingles like a drunk triangle. The cat's asleep on the manga shelf.
We don't talk for a bit.
She flips through some old shoujo volume, mutters something about too many sparkles.
I drift to the art book section, pretending to browse.
Every few seconds, I glance at her reflection in the glass of the cabinet.
She looks okay.
But not okay okay.
Her shoulders droop in moments she thinks I'm not looking. Her fingers pause longer between pages.
She's reading — but she's also hiding.
---
"Hungry?" I ask.
She shrugs.
We end up at a tiny kissaten-style cafe next to the station.
Quiet booths. Fake wood panels. Piano music so soft it might be imaginary.
We order melon pan toast and iced coffee.
A callback. She doesn't mention it, but I notice her smile twitch.
---
Midway through her second bite, she blurts:
"I don't like weekends."
I blink. "Okay."
She doesn't elaborate. Just chews. Swallows.
Stares at her coffee like it offended her ancestors.
I wait.
Eventually, she says, "They suck. I don't like the quiet. Or the house. Or anything about Saturday and Sunday except maybe convenience stores at night."
Still, I wait.
Then, finally:
"My mom and I fight a lot."
---
I nod. "About?"
"Everything. Me. Her. Her boyfriend. The fact that I don't act normal."
"You act fine."
"You're biased. You think 'fine' is jazz and fox masks."
"...That's true."
She exhales.
"She says I disappear into other people. That I build my days around strangers and crushes and distractions."
"That's... harsh."
"She's not wrong."
---
There's a long pause.
She plays with the straw in her drink.
Then glances up.
"I used to think the train was an escape. Something stable. Predictable. Sit. Ride. Leave. Repeat."
She looks at me now.
"You made it unpredictable."
I raise an eyebrow. "Was that a complaint?"
"No," she says quietly. "It's a thank you."
---
I don't reply right away.
I sip my drink.
Melon pan's too sweet. Coffee's too bitter.
But the moment feels balanced.
So I offer her a napkin. "You've got sugar on your face."
She swipes at her cheek like I punched her.
"Where?"
"Gone now."
She glares. "You liar."
"You're welcome."
She sighs. "Still impossible."
"You're consistent."
---
We leave the café without saying where to go next.
Just wander.
Past the station. Past a park. Onto a pedestrian bridge that overlooks the tracks.
There are no trains right now.
Just silver rails, curved shadows, and a breeze that smells like September is nearby.
---
She stops.
Sits on the railing. Kicks her legs gently.
"You know what's scary?"
I don't answer.
She tells me anyway.
> "Needing people."
---
It's not loud. Not dramatic.
But it lands with weight.
I sit beside her.
Wait for the follow-up.
"There were days I'd sit in bed, thinking if I didn't show up, no one would care.
And then you showed up. You sat next to me. Even when I didn't ask."
"You didn't have to."
"I know. But you did."
---
She rests her head on my shoulder.
Just for a moment.
Then mutters: "Weekends still suck."
I nod.
"But today's less sucky."
She grins without showing teeth. "High praise."
---
We sit until the sun dips behind the towers and the shadows stretch across the rails.
No train passes.
But I don't need one today.