***
The train hums steadily over rain-wet tracks, its windows turned into mirrors by the dusk outside.
Elara sits across from Ciel, knees almost touching. The air between them feels fragile, stretched thin by words they've both left unsaid.
She wants to ask where they're going, but the answer no longer matters. Every passing mile feels like a borrowed moment, a love letter written too late.
He holds his sketchbook loosely in his lap, thumb smoothing the worn edge of the cover.
"Draw me," she says softly. "So you won't forget."
"I could draw you a thousand times," he whispers, "and still forget the sound of your voice."
She tries to smile, but it breaks before it reaches her eyes. The train sways gently; outside, rain blurs city lights into trembling gold.
"I'm afraid," she admits.
"Me too," he says. "But at least… we were here. Even just for this."
He doesn't say what this is — the ride, the rain, the years that never belonged to them. Maybe it's all of it. Maybe it's only the moment their hands find each other in the quiet, trembling space between breaths.
As the train slows into darkness, she sees it in his gaze: the knowing. That soon she'll wake somewhere else. That soon he'll be nothing but another memory wrapped in Tuesday rain.
She wants to say I love you, but the words catch in her throat, heavy with all the lives they've already shared.
So instead, she squeezes his hand once — a promise and a goodbye. And in the blur of movement and heartache, his sketchbook falls open, showing only the unfinished lines of her face.
When the train stops, he is gone. And she wakes alone, the echo of his warmth fading like breath on glass.
***