7:43 A.M.
The train doors open.
No fox mask.
No chaotic hair.
No dramatic entrance with a melon pan in her mouth like a weapon.
Just… an empty window seat.
I hesitate at the door longer than usual.
A commuter behind me clears his throat.
I get on.
---
The seat stays empty all the way to school.
I don't listen to music.
I don't sketch.
I just sit there, clutching the strap of my bag, my chest feeling like someone vacuumed out my lungs and filled the space with silence.
---
Maybe she overslept.
Maybe she missed the train.
Maybe her phone died again.
Or maybe—
No. Don't do that.
I pull out my phone anyway. Scroll through our chat history.
It's short. But good.
Mostly dumb song links and melon pan memes.
The last message was from me:
> "You looked really happy yesterday."
No reply.
Still unread.
---
The next day — same thing.
No Hikari.
I get on the train, earbuds in, but nothing's playing.
I sit beside the window.
Watch the city slide past.
Try not to think about how weird it feels to see my reflection alone.
---
Third day.
Now I'm checking other cars like a lunatic.
My brain's like:
This is dumb.
She's probably fine.
She probably forgot.
But my heart?
My heart whispers:
> "You didn't misread it. Right?"
---
After school, I finally do something pathetic.
I go to the school library and open the third-year class directory.
Find her name.
Find her LINE.
I hesitate for a full five minutes.
Then type:
> "Are you okay?"
I don't send a follow-up.
I don't double-text.
I just stare at the tiny "sent" checkmark like it holds the answers to the universe.
---
That night, I listen to our playlist — "Next Stop."
Volume low.
One earbud in.
Her hum echoes in my memory.
Off-key. Carefree.
Real.
---
I dream about the train.
She's sitting beside me. But she doesn't look up.
She's not wearing a uniform. Not even her mask.
Just a hoodie, staring out the window.
As if I'm not even there.
I try to speak.
She vanishes before I can.
The music keeps playing.
But only in one ear.
---