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There are three things I hate about mornings.
One: People.
Two: Wet shoes.
Three: People with wet shoes who breathe near me.
So naturally, 7:43 A.M. on a Monday during Tokyo's monsoon season is my personal version of hell.
I step onto the train like I always do, earbuds already in, volume at the level where jazz barely drowns out the existential dread. The usual sea of tired adults and sleep-deprived students fills the carriage like warm soggy tofu. But it's fine. I've perfected this. I move with clockwork precision.
Walk five paces. Left turn. Window seat, third row.
My seat.
Except today… my seat is taken.
By a girl.
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Now I'm not one of those guys who believes in fate or soulmates or that sharing a bench with someone counts as destiny. I believe in silent mornings and well-worn train seats. But this girl — the invader of my sacred window throne — is already ruining everything.
She's hunched over, hair slightly wet and sticking out like she just lost a fight with a blow-dryer. Her uniform's skirt is crumpled, tie loose, and her bag is—
Rip.
—ripping open like a badly written romantic comedy.
A juice box rolls out and hits my shoe. Apple. Classic.
She blinks up at me.
"Oh," she says, like I'm the one sitting in her spot.
I just stare. My jazz playlist swells into a melancholic piano solo. It feels appropriate.
Then I realize I'm blocking the door and the universe is about to shove me in if I don't move.
I sigh, adjust my bag, and take the seat beside her.
That's right. I, Minato Sora, King of Avoidance and Solitary Silence, have voluntarily sat next to chaos incarnate.
---
The train jerks into motion. Rain streaks the window like a moody filter. People around us shift, blink, pretend they're not slowly dying inside.
I sneak a glance at her.
She's trying to zip her bag back up but the zipper is officially dead. May it rest in peace. Her phone is in her hand, black screen, no light. Dead.
"Stupid rain," she mutters under her breath.
Her eyes flick over to me. Then to my earbud wires.
Then back to me.
Look, I know how this looks. I'm the silent loner sitting beside her on a crowded train. I have music. She doesn't. Her life is clearly falling apart. This is the part in the movie where the male lead says something charming and offers his earphones with a cheesy grin.
Instead, I pull one earbud out like it physically pains me and extend it toward her wordlessly.
Yes, I hate myself too.
She blinks.
"…Huh?"
I shrug. "It's just jazz."
She raises one eyebrow like I just offered her raw tofu for breakfast.
But then, after a beat, she shrugs and takes it.
Our shoulders brush. My soul briefly leaves my body.
---
We don't speak.
Miles of track blur by as the train hums along.
The song playing is a mellow instrumental piece — soft drums, rain-like piano, some guy whispering something about coffee and heartbreak. I chose it because it makes me feel like a misunderstood poet. Or at least someone who doesn't cry when dogs die in movies. (I do.)
The girl taps her fingers lightly against her skirt. She's not humming. She's not fidgeting.
She's just… listening.
We hit one of the longer tunnels. Lights flicker for a moment. No one says anything. Someone near the door coughs. Someone else sneezes.
She shifts slightly and pulls her knee up to rest her chin on it — entirely oblivious to personal space or gravity.
I realize I've been watching her longer than I should.
I look away, out the window. The raindrops are dancing. It feels dramatic. Like life might change at any moment.
Which is exactly the kind of thing cringe people say right before doing something dumb.
---
The train slows as we near one of the stations. I don't pay attention to the stop. I never do. But she does.
She leans forward slightly, unplugs the shared earbud, and hands it back without looking at me.
Then, just as she's about to get up—
She leans down, lips near my ear, and says softly:
> "Jazz, huh? Not bad."
The doors open.
She steps off into the rain and disappears into the crowd.
I sit there, holding the warm earbud like it's suddenly infected with feelings.
I'm not panicking. You're panicking.
---
The train moves again.
The seat next to me is empty now. It feels... louder somehow. The music plays on, but I don't hear it.
Not really.
I blink. Reach for my phone. Click on the playlist.
Track 6: "Rain in Blue" – YamaJazz Quartet.
I replay it.
Twice.
---
And that, dear reader — assuming anyone is actually reading this and not scrolling through this monologue while waiting for your ramen to cook — is how it started.
Not with fireworks.
Not with fate.
Just with a broken bag, a dead phone…
And one shared earbud on a rainy morning.
I don't know her name.
But I know she hums slightly offbeat to piano jazz.
And that might be the most dangerous thing of all.
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