There's a strange kind of silence that comes when someone doesn't show up.
Not the peaceful, headphone-jazz kind. Not even the satisfying silence of avoiding social interactions.
It's the hollow kind.
The kind that feels like a missing puzzle piece. Or when you reach for your phone in your pocket and it's not there, and suddenly the world is 10% more terrifying.
That's what Monday feels like.
Hikari isn't on the train.
---
I board the 7:43 A.M. line like I always do. Steps practiced, route memorized, playlist ready.
The seat is empty.
Not just physically. Existentially. Like it's not just missing a person — it's missing a presence.
I sit anyway.
Plug in my earbuds. Pull up the Next Stop playlist she named.
Track 1: "Lines Between Us."
The song we both avoided eye contact to.
Perfect. I hate it.
I press play.
And then it happens.
I hear her hum.
Not actually. Obviously. I'm not delusional. Probably.
But somewhere in my head, I can still hear that offbeat hum she always did — slightly late, slightly wrong, slightly perfect.
It's not even music anymore. It's muscle memory.
The earbud feels colder than usual.
---
Day two.
Still not there.
The seat feels colder, too.
I don't even sit in it this time. I stand.
Like an idiot.
Looking around the train car like she might just appear with her bag hanging open, apologizing about something completely unrelated. Like "Sorry I'm late, I had to fight a crow for my sandwich" or something equally ridiculous.
But she's not here.
And I don't know why that matters so much.
---
I don't ask anyone.
Obviously.
That would be insane.
I don't care.
I'm just… curious. About train routines. And atmospheric balance.
I happen to open our school's class group chat for the first time in recorded history. Everyone's talking about tests and the rainy season and some third-year who tripped on a juice box and caused a domino fall of students down a staircase.
No mention of Hikari.
I stare at my screen for a full five minutes.
Then — purely for scientific purposes — I open the school database, scroll through Class 1-C's contact list, and tap on her name.
I type:
"You okay?"
Simple. Neutral. Emotionless. Cold-blooded. Ninja-level detachment.
Then I hit send.
And immediately want to throw my phone into the sun.
---
No reply.
---
The next morning, I get on the train and don't even bother pulling out my phone.
I just stare at the seat.
It doesn't look like her anymore.
Just looks like a seat.
I want to sketch something. Anything. Just to fill the silence. But my pencil feels heavy today. My hands too slow.
Still, at home that night, I take out my sketchbook. Flip past old doodles, page after page of almost-nothing.
Then stop on the drawing I did of her.
The one from the window moment.
Hair curled just slightly. Eyes half-lidded. The tiniest hint of a smile.
She didn't even see it. But I remember every line.
And that's the problem.
Memory makes everything worse.
Because when someone is there, they're there. Real. Human. Loud. Annoying.
But when they're gone… your brain starts editing. Sharpening the edges. Highlighting the warmth. Trimming the messy parts.
Suddenly, even the way she rolled her eyes at my music tastes feels nostalgic.
I open a new page. Hesitate.
Then start sketching again.
This time from memory.
It's rougher. Looser. Not about perfection.
It's her with a candy in her mouth, pointing at my phone like she's about to start a music war. Her eyes are squinted. She's probably making fun of me.
I finish it fast.
Faster than usual.
Then I shut the notebook and put it facedown.
Because if I look at it too long, I'll convince myself I drew it for a reason.
---
I listen to Next Stop again.
All six tracks.
Every one of them feels longer now.
Without her reactions — the side glances, the muttered criticisms, the exaggerated yawns — they're just… songs.
Beautiful. But incomplete.
Like watching fireworks with one eye closed.
---
I wonder if she's sick.
Or oversleeping.
Or just bored of the routine we fell into.
Maybe she met someone else on another train. One of those romantic train anime boys with dramatic hair and a scarf, who carries coffee and plays indie guitar songs and actually talks about his feelings.
Disgusting.
Or maybe nothing happened at all.
Maybe she's just gone.
And the universe doesn't feel the need to explain.
---
By now, the playlist is background noise. I hear it, but it doesn't feel like anything.
Until it gets to the duet.
The one with the accidental romance.
The one we both refused to acknowledge.
This time, I don't skip it.
I sit in silence.
Listen to every word.
And wonder why it hurts a little more now.
---
I don't text her again.
Not because I don't want to.
But because I do.
Too much.
And that's where it gets dangerous.
---
That night, I lie in bed, arms folded under my head, staring at the ceiling like it holds the answers to the mysteries of human connection.
It doesn't.
It just has a crack shaped like a banana. Possibly a chicken wing.
I think about asking my mom if she's heard of a girl named Hikari. Just to say her name out loud.
I don't.
Instead, I flip open my sketchbook again and stare at the latest drawing.
She's not smiling in this one.
She's laughing.
Head tilted back, eyes shut, probably teasing me again. Probably telling me I'm being dramatic.
She wouldn't be wrong.
I trace the lines of her sleeve — the part that's always half-wrinkled from her half-zipped bag.
Then I write something underneath the sketch.
Small. Faint. Pencil barely pressed against the page.
> "You don't realize how much someone changed your mornings… until they vanish."
Then I close the book.
And try to sleep.
But the only sound in my ears is humming.
Offbeat. Slightly late.
And missing.