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7:43 A.M.
The train doors open.
She's there.
Back.
Window seat.
But it takes me a second to recognize her.
---
Her hair's shorter now — chin-length, sharp, like she took scissors to a storm.
No mask. No crumbs on her cheek.
Just... her.
Except not.
She's looking out the window, eyes far off, like they're searching for something on the horizon.
My heart jumps up, relieved.
Then immediately sinks.
Because she doesn't wave.
She doesn't smile.
She doesn't even glance at me.
---
Still, I sit beside her.
Same seat. Same gap. Same playlist in my pocket, untouched.
I don't say anything.
Neither does she.
She's not wearing earphones.
She's not holding anything.
Just her hands — clenched together like she's afraid of what they might do if they let go.
---
After two stations, she finally speaks.
"I cut my hair."
Her voice is flat. Matter-of-fact. Like a weather report.
I nod. "I noticed."
Silence.
Then she adds:
> "Felt like something needed to change."
---
That's the first time I realize something's actually wrong.
Not just tired-wrong or moody-wrong.
But broken clock, skipped beat, unplugged heart kind of wrong.
---
"I was worried," I say.
She nods, still not looking at me.
"I know."
"You didn't reply."
"I didn't want to."
That stings. I try not to show it.
Instead, I ask:
"Why?"
She finally looks at me.
Eyes smaller than I remember.
Like someone turned the brightness down on her soul.
> "Because I didn't want you to wait."
---
I blink.
"That doesn't make sense."
"It does to me."
"You could've just said that."
"I'm saying it now."
I clench my fists in my lap. Try to breathe.
The space between us feels wider than ever. A canyon lined with songs we used to share.
"You could've said anything," I repeat. "Even just a period. A dot. I would've gotten the message."
She flinches.
"I didn't want to send anything I'd regret."
I stare at her.
> "You regret me?"
---
The question hangs there.
Heavy.
Sharp.
She doesn't answer.
Just pulls her sleeves over her hands and stares at the window again.
---
Something inside me — the part that's been patient and quiet and hoping — finally snaps.
I lean forward.
Not loud. Just honest.
> "Then why did you ride the train every morning with me?"
She doesn't respond.
> "Why make a playlist? Why sit next to me? Why let me draw you, text you, wait for you?"
Still nothing.
> "Why tell me you like me? Was that fireworks talking?"
Her jaw tightens.
I shake my head. "You know what? Never mind."
---
I start to stand.
Her hand suddenly grabs my sleeve.
Not hard.
But fast.
Like reflex.
I freeze.
Then turn back.
---
She's staring down at her lap. Still holding on.
Her voice barely comes out.
"I'm scared, okay?"
---
That stops everything.
The air.
The train.
Me.
Just—everything.
---
"I'm scared," she repeats, voice shaking. "Because I liked it too much. You. Us. The stupid playlist. The way you look at me when I talk about dumb candy or jazz I don't really understand."
I sit back down slowly.
She doesn't let go of my sleeve.
---
"People like me ruin good things," she says, quieter now. "I've done it before. I ruin routines. I mess up soft things. I didn't want to do that to you."
I finally speak.
"Then you should've told me that."
She lets go.
Sits back.
"I didn't think you'd get it."
I look at her, really look.
She looks so small.
So tired.
Not physically — emotionally.
Like she's been carrying a secret heavier than her entire body.
---
"I do get it," I say softly.
"...You do?"
"I've ruined things too. I've closed off. Disappeared. Shut people out because I thought it was safer to be alone than risk someone hating the real me."
She bites her lip.
Tears threaten behind her eyes, but she doesn't blink.
---
I offer her the earbud.
She hesitates.
Then, like it's the last thing keeping her together, she takes it.
---
Track 3: "Homecoming (Acoustic Lo-Fi)"
We sit there.
Music in one ear.
Train rattling beneath us.
Not fixed.
Not whole.
But maybe... still together.
---
Final line:
> "Even broken songs can play if the rhythm's shared."
---