There are good mornings.
There are bad mornings.
And then there are mornings that feel like a punch from the universe — but with jazz playing faintly in the background.
This was the third kind.
---
She didn't show up.
Again.
The train doors opened, and there was no fox mask, no untamed hair, no flustered "Move over, jazz-boy."
Just air.
A Sora-shaped space beside the window. And me, looking ridiculous for checking every aisle twice like I'd lost a pet.
---
Then my phone buzzed.
> [Hikari]: "Going to be late. Everything sucks."
No punctuation. Classic Hikari. Emotions: 10. Grammar: 0.
I stared at the message like it might reveal more if I tilted the screen.
Late.
Everything sucks.
Ambiguity level: critical.
---
I texted back.
> "Where are you?"
No reply.
I waited.
Five minutes.
Seven.
Ten.
Train after train came. None with her inside.
I wasn't worried yet. Just... restlessly uncaring. You know, the way you care deeply but pretend you don't because caring is for people who have their life together.
I pulled out the train map. Started studying nearby lines. Transits. Possibilities.
Then finally, one more message.
> "Wrong train. Sorry."
---
Wrong train?
Wrong stop, sure.
Wrong outfit, that's happened.
But wrong train?
This wasn't a mistake. This was a cry for help disguised as casual inconvenience.
So I did what any socially incompetent teenager with unresolved emotional issues would do.
I chased her.
---
The next transfer was packed. The kind of crowd that makes you regret humanity's invention of public transportation. But I didn't care.
One wrong move and I'd end up on the wrong train too.
Fitting, honestly. Two emotionally constipated teens lost in a metaphor.
---
I found her at a station two lines over.
A small platform. Empty. Like no one wanted to be there — including her.
She was curled up on a bench. Hoodie over her head. Legs pulled close. Earbuds in.
She looked like someone who didn't want to be found.
But had secretly hoped someone would try.
---
I approached.
Quietly. Like she'd disappear if I made a sound.
She didn't look up.
Didn't flinch.
Just sat there, motionless, as the music hummed through her ears like a wall between her and the world.
Then I noticed her shoulders.
Shaking.
---
Not from cold.
But from something heavier.
Something familiar.
She was crying.
---
I didn't say anything.
Didn't announce myself.
Didn't try to comfort her with textbook phrases like "It'll be okay" or "She didn't mean it."
People say those things when they want to wrap sadness in bubble wrap and shove it away.
But some pain doesn't want to be wrapped.
It wants space.
---
So I sat beside her.
Quietly.
Carefully.
As if entering someone's sadness required permission.
---
She didn't acknowledge me at first.
Just let the tears fall.
One.
Then another.
Then a breath that sounded more like a crack.
---
Finally, her voice came out — soft, sharp, cracked at the edges.
> "I got into a fight with my mom."
I didn't move.
Didn't speak.
> "She said I'm always running away."
She let out a bitter laugh.
> "And I guess I proved her right."
---
Still, I didn't speak.
Because honestly?
She was right.
She was running.
But not in the way her mother thought.
It wasn't escape.
It was protection.
From people. From expectations. From disappointment with a smile.
---
I pulled out my phone.
No words.
Just our playlist.
I handed her one of the earbuds.
She hesitated.
Then took it.
---
We didn't hit play right away.
We just sat.
For five minutes.
Earbuds in.
No music.
Just the sound of station announcements echoing faintly in the distance. A dog barking. A vending machine buzzing like it was trying too hard to matter.
And silence.
---
But it wasn't empty.
It was full of you're not alone, and you don't have to talk, and I'm not going anywhere even if you want me to.
Then the song began.
Track 3.
Slow guitar. Soft keys. No lyrics.
The kind of music that lets you cry without asking questions.
---
She didn't lean on me.
Not right away.
But she did rest her head back.
Shoulders relaxed.
Hands unclenched.
Her breathing steadied.
---
Then, slowly, she leaned against my arm.
Lightly.
Not like she needed saving.
But like she needed anchoring.
---
I didn't move.
Didn't even breathe too hard.
Just sat there.
Two people. One bench. One wrong train.
And maybe, somehow, the right moment.
---
I don't know how long we sat like that.
Long enough for the platform to feel familiar.
Long enough for her to stop shaking.
Long enough for me to forget this wasn't our usual line — and wish it could be.
---
Eventually, she whispered, "Thanks."
Just that.
Not loud. Not elaborate.
But real.
I didn't answer.
Just nodded.
Because anything else would ruin it.
---
And maybe that's how healing starts.
Not with speeches.
But with someone sitting next to you on the wrong train.
Saying nothing.
But meaning everything.