Some people bring umbrellas when it rains.
Some bring breakfast, books, or broken dreams.
Today, Fujimiya Hikari brings a splitter jack.
A tiny plastic thing — tangled like a failed marriage — held up proudly between her fingers like she just unearthed a rare artifact.
"Behold," she says, "The Future of Our Commuting Relationship."
I blink at it, half-asleep, the train swaying under our feet as we sit.
"A splitter?"
"Yup. Now we can both be music control freaks at the same time. I pick three songs. You pick three. Then we judge each other."
"…Judge?"
"Respectfully," she adds, unconvincingly.
I squint at her. "You brought this just to insult my playlist more efficiently?"
"Exactly," she beams.
I sigh but hand over my phone anyway. At this point, I've accepted that logic does not apply to this girl. Like gravity when anime girls fall and land on boys in compromising positions.
She connects the splitter, then plugs in her bright yellow earbuds. They look like candy. I refuse to admit they're cute.
"Ready?" she asks.
I nod. I should be scared.
---
Round 1: Her pick.
Song title: "Neon Ramen" by The Rice Thieves.
The beat kicks in. It's fast. Bouncy. Loud enough to wake the dead. Probably composed inside a washing machine.
She bobs her head. I wince.
"What is this?" I mutter.
"Masterpiece," she says, eyes closed, hands conducting an invisible orchestra of chaos.
Lyrics drop: "Spoon me slowly, baby, my noodles need love."
I nearly yank the wire out.
She grins, "Too spicy for you, jazz boy?"
I mutter something about brain cells dying in self-defense.
---
Round 2: My pick.
Track: "Evening Rain" by Shun Kiyama.
Soft piano. Slow trumpet. A melody that sounds like watching someone you love walk away in slow motion.
She stops bopping.
Frowns.
"…Did someone break your heart in the womb?" she asks.
"It's not heartbreak. It's peace," I defend. "It's like silence… but prettier."
She pauses. Actually thinks about it.
"Okay," she says. "Still sounds like sad grandpa music, but I respect the vibe."
That's probably the highest compliment I'll get from her this month.
---
Round 3: Her pick.
A J-Pop song with lyrics about time machines and grilled squid. Catchy. Loud. Ridiculous.
She starts mouthing the words, whisper-singing under her breath with way too much conviction. I try not to laugh. I fail internally.
"What?" she asks mid-chorus, noticing my expression.
"You're off-key."
"It's called interpretive pitch."
"That's not a thing."
"It is when you believe in yourself."
---
Round 4: My pick.
"Lines Between Us" by Yuuho Arai. A track with just vocals and acoustic guitar. No drums. No tricks. Just… feeling.
The song plays.
She doesn't speak.
Her fingers tap once, then stop.
She leans her head against the window.
Her reflection looks softer than usual.
I don't know why, but I stop breathing.
"…Okay," she says finally, very quietly.
"That one's… unfair."
"Unfair?"
She clears her throat. "It has that… rainy day breakup montage energy."
I tilt my head. "But no one's breaking up."
"Exactly," she murmurs. "That's why it hits."
For a second, neither of us say anything.
The train clacks forward. The city slides by like a blurred memory.
She turns her head away.
I look out my window.
We both look away at the same time.
---
Round 5: Her pick.
It's a cover of a love song from an old anime — the kind with windchimes, sakura petals, and childhood promises that never get fulfilled.
I recognize the melody. I don't want to. But I do.
I glance at her.
She's not smiling now.
Just watching the floor with this faraway look, like she's somewhere else entirely.
The lyrics echo faintly in our ears:
"I waited for you by the stairs / but the summer passed without a sound."
Too much feeling for a weekday.
She exhales softly. "Okay. My turn to say it."
"…Say what?"
"That wasn't heartbreak. That was peace."
We both smirk — the tiniest mirror smirks.
---
Round 6: My pick.
Big risk.
I scroll past five safer choices. Then press play.
The song begins.
It's a soft duet. Boy and girl. Their voices don't blend perfectly — they clash, slightly off, like puzzle pieces trying too hard to fit.
But it's… gentle.
Romantic.
Unintentionally romantic.
I regret it the moment the first chorus hits.
I try not to look at her.
She's definitely not looking at me.
The air feels warmer. Like our ears are touching even though they aren't. Like the music is saying things we haven't earned the right to say.
Too close. Too soon.
I shift slightly in my seat.
She fiddles with her skirt.
Neither of us says a word until the song ends.
Then she coughs. "So."
I nod. "Yeah."
She glances sideways. "Interesting pick."
I reply too fast. "It was an accident."
She grins. "Accidental romance?"
"I panicked."
"Mmhm. Sure."
---
The train begins to slow. Her stop.
She unplugs the splitter, wraps her earphones carefully, and stands.
Before stepping out, she turns and says:
"So far, your playlist is 60% heartbreak, 30% jazz, 10% accidental seduction."
I choke on air. "What?"
She waves as the doors slide open.
"Tomorrow," she calls, "you better bring snacks. Emotional ones."
And just like that, she's gone again.
Leaving me with tangled wires, a chaotic heart, and a song stuck in my head that suddenly means more than it did five minutes ago.
---
I sit back, phone still in hand.
The train continues.
I don't press play.
Not yet.
Because for the first time, I'm afraid of what the next song might make me feel.
---