The next morning, Rei woke up earlier than usual—not because of an alarm, but because of her.
He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling as soft light leaked in through his curtains. Kana.
Her name echoed in his head like a chorus he couldn't stop humming. He replayed the train ride over and over: her voice, her smile, the way she closed her eyes and swayed gently to the rhythm of his song. The warmth of that shared silence, the intimacy of listening without speaking.
For someone who usually built walls between himself and the world, Rei felt something unfamiliar beginning to bloom. It wasn't loud. It wasn't dramatic. It was quiet—like the soft hum beneath a song, the one you don't always notice but feel all the same.
He got up, dressed, and stepped outside, earbuds still forgotten. A part of him knew it was foolish, that he should've bought a new pair already. But walking without music didn't feel so lonely anymore—not when the silence carried a memory.
What if I see her again?
The thought was persistent, nagging in a hopeful kind of way. She had said she didn't ride that train line every day, but maybe—maybe—they'd cross paths again.
Rei took the same route to school. Same station. Same platform. He scanned the crowd casually, heart thudding a little faster at every glimpse of a dark braid or navy-blue bag. But she wasn't there.
Not that day.
And not the next.
Still, he waited—standing in the same car, near the same window, saving the seat across from him like an unspoken invitation. People came and went. The train moved through stations like clockwork, but that magic moment hadn't returned.
Instead, she lived in the in-between moments: when he walked past the convenience store and didn't buy a replacement; when he looked at his phone and hovered over his playlist, wondering what song she'd pick next.
Days turned into a week.
And still, no sign of her.
But his feelings hadn't faded. If anything, they grew stronger, layered by longing. He didn't even know what it meant to "miss" someone he'd met only once. But he did. He missed her without knowing her birthday, her favorite color, or even her last name.
He missed her like a favorite song you only heard once and couldn't find again.
—
One afternoon, after school, Rei stopped by the music store near the station. The smell of new plastic and vinyl hung in the air. He wandered past the shelves of headphones, fingers grazing each package like they might spark a memory.
The clerk—a bored college student chewing gum—looked up. "Looking for something?"
Rei hesitated. Then said, "Do you have any models that let you share music wirelessly? Like... split listening?"
The clerk raised an eyebrow. "Bluetooth sharing? Yeah, a couple. You trying to vibe with someone?"
Rei didn't answer, just nodded and left empty-handed.
He wasn't trying to "vibe." He just wanted to be ready—if, by some miracle, it happened again.
—
It was ten days later when the miracle came.
It was raining.
Rei stood under the awning at the platform, drops splashing against his shoes. His uniform clung to him, damp at the sleeves and collar. His bag felt heavier than usual. His heart, too.
The train screeched to a stop. Doors opened.
He stepped inside, barely glancing up.
Then froze.
She was there.
Kana.
Sitting across the aisle, earbud in, head tilted against the window. Her eyes were half-closed, her lips mouthing words he couldn't hear. For a second, Rei thought he was dreaming—until her eyes opened slowly, as if sensing him.
They met his.
And smiled.
Soft. Real.
His heart skipped.
He sat down across from her, breath caught somewhere between his ribs and his throat. She pulled out her earbud and offered it to him, no words needed.
He took it. Slid it in.
The song playing was upbeat, the kind you could imagine dancing to under a stormy sky. He smiled.
"Didn't think I'd see you again," she said, voice barely above the music.
"I was hoping I would," Rei replied.
They didn't talk for the next few minutes. Just listened. Shared. Let the train rock them gently while raindrops traced paths down the windows.
When the train neared the split station—the one where she'd said goodbye last time—Rei turned to her.
"I don't know where you're headed today, but… would you want to get off at the next stop with me?"
She looked at him.
Then nodded. "I was hoping you'd ask."
—
The station was small. Quiet. The rain had lessened, leaving a soft mist in the air. They sat under the awning outside, still sharing music, watching the world pass like a fading chorus.
Rei turned to her.
"I don't have a new earpiece yet," he said.
Kana tilted her head. "Why not?"
He shrugged. "I was waiting. For this. For… you."
She blinked, caught off guard. Her fingers tightened slightly on the earbud cord between them.
"Do you want to meet again?" he asked, a little breathless now. "Not just on the train. But… after school? On purpose?"
Kana smiled.
"I'd like that."
Rei exhaled like he'd been holding his breath for a year.
The song in their shared earbud ended. A new one began.
Slower. Softer.
But this time, it didn't feel like half a song.
It felt like the beginning of something whole.