Next Stop, You

The train doors closed behind us.

We didn't talk.

Didn't look at each other, either.

We just took our usual seats.

Window side for her.

A little too stiff for me.

Everything felt the same.

But not really.

Like when you rearrange your desk and try to pretend you didn't.

---

She didn't pull out the splitter.

Neither did I.

Somehow, it felt too loud.

So instead, we sat with our bags in our laps, our playlists still unplayed, and a thousand words ricocheting inside both our skulls.

---

"I kept them," I said.

Not looking at her.

Just staring out the window, like the passing buildings might back me up.

She glanced at me.

"Kep... what?"

"Every version," I muttered. "Of the playlist. Even the one where you renamed my songs to roast me."

Her lips curled, just slightly. "Sad Boy Supreme Edition was iconic."

"Not really."

"Extremely."

---

The silence that followed was lighter.

Not gone.

Just folded neatly and put to the side.

She tucked her hair behind her ear. Again. Still not in the way.

Then she asked:

"Why'd you keep them?"

A pause.

Then, with the most nonchalant tone I could scrape together:

"Because I didn't want to forget how you talked to me."

---

Her face shifted.

Not dramatically.

Just... cracked a little.

And for once, she didn't try to fill the silence with a joke.

No sarcastic jabs.

No metaphors about tulips or jazz.

Just her, biting her lip, blinking too much, looking down at her hands like they might give her something to hold onto.

---

"I wanted to come back sooner," she whispered. "I just… I didn't know how to sit beside you after all the not-sitting-beside-you I did."

"That sentence was impressive."

"I'm spiraling."

"Yeah. I can tell."

---

She laughed.

Barely.

But it was real.

Not the broken laugh from last time.

Something warmer. Something that made my chest feel like a tight drawer that finally slid open.

---

Then, almost shyly, she pulled out her phone.

Opened the playlist app.

Tapped a file.

> Next Stop (Ver. 5.0): Just Us Again

It had one song in it.

Just one.

---

She handed me the other earbud.

This time, I took it without hesitation.

The song started.

Piano. No vocals. Just simple chords that felt like turning your face to the sun after a long winter.

---

"I found this one when I was sick," she said. "Didn't know where to put it. But now I do."

I didn't respond.

Mostly because I was trying not to feel things with my face.

And failing.

---

When the song ended, she said:

"I wasn't kidding, you know."

"About?"

"When I said I liked you."

---

I nodded slowly.

Still not looking.

"Yeah. I know."

She nudged me with her elbow.

"Do you—?"

I cut her off.

"Yeah."

---

She blinked. "That's it?"

"What else do you want, a haiku?"

She smiled.

"Actually, yeah. Go on."

I groaned.

But after a moment, I said, deadpan:

> "Train seat, side by side

Your music made mornings soft

Please stop stealing fries."

---

She laughed.

Loud this time.

Too loud for the train, probably.

A few people looked over.

I didn't care.

She was laughing again.

And this time, she stayed.

---

The next stop approached.

She didn't get up.

Neither did I.

We sat there, earphones in, the same song repeating.

Hands resting on the space between us.

Not touching.

But close.

---

We didn't need to say everything.

Not yet.

Sometimes, sitting beside someone in silence says more than a monologue ever could.

---