She shows up with a grin and a declaration:
"Today, we start over."
I blink, halfway through a sip of vending machine milk tea that now tastes like anxiety.
Hikari drops into the seat beside me like a thunderclap in pigtails.
Her hair's even messier than usual. Her uniform's still regulation-breaking by at least three buttons. But her eyes — her eyes are sharp today. Like she's here.
Alive.
Charged.
Literally.
She holds up her phone.
"Battery: 97%. Songs: curated. Theme: Us."
I stare.
She grins wider.
---
"I made rules," she says, already untangling the splitter like she's defusing a bomb.
"Wait—'us'?"
"Yep. The new playlist. This one's ours. Not yours. Not mine. Shared custody."
"I didn't agree to any of this."
"Too late. You're already in the divorce papers."
She jams an earbud into my hand and passes me her phone.
I glance at the playlist title:
"next stop: we"
...Lowercase, because of course.
---
We plug in.
Set the rules:
3 songs each.
No skips.
5 words to describe every track.
Bonus points for accidental tears.
I point at that last rule. "That's aggressive."
"I believe in emotional accountability," she says, nodding solemnly.
---
First up: her pick.
A dreamy synth-pop track that sounds like glitter falling off a disco ball in slow motion.
She bobs her head, already mouthing the words.
I think: This is the audio version of her brain.
My review:
"Feels like soda-flavored heartbreak."
She gasps, hand to chest. "That's... actually poetic. Are you evolving?"
I shrug. "Evolution is a myth."
---
Next: my turn.
A piano-heavy lo-fi track with exactly three chords and one ghostly trumpet.
She listens.
Then whispers:
"Lonely jazz trapped in snow."
I freeze.
Because… yeah.
She just got it.
Better than I ever could've explained.
"Okay," I admit. "You're scary good at this."
"Duh."
---
Third track. Her again.
This one's chaotic — clashing beats, fast vocals, weird energy.
She headbangs like she's in a mini rave.
I try to keep up. Fail immediately.
She throws me a look. "Too wild for you, Grandpa?"
I respond maturely: "Your taste is allergic to rhythm."
Our five-word review:
"Anxiety wearing neon roller skates."
---
By the fifth song, we've devolved into giggles.
Not laughs. Giggles.
The kind that sneak out between lyrics when you're not trying to be funny, but everything suddenly feels light.
Safe.
One song ends with a key change so dramatic we both grab each other's arms like it personally attacked us.
She says, "This song requires a soul pact."
I raise an eyebrow. "That's very specific."
"Don't fight it."
She sticks out her pinky.
"What is this?"
"A binding agreement. Friendship. Or vengeance. Possibly love."
I hesitate.
Then hook mine around hers.
Our pinkies hold.
And for a moment, the train doesn't exist.
No noise.
No other passengers.
Just four connected fingers and one unfinished song.
---
By the sixth track, I'm leaning back. Eyes closed.
She's humming again.
Softly.
Not off-beat this time. On purpose.
In sync.
The playlist ends.
And we don't rush to unplug.
---
The train slows toward her stop.
She stretches, exaggerated and sleepy.
I say, "Same time tomorrow?"
She nods.
Then adds: "But next time, bring your A-game. You're barely carrying this duo."
I smirk. "I let you win."
She pauses mid-step. Turns. Walks back a little.
And quietly says:
"You never had to let me."
Then she leaves.
---
The train starts again.
And for once, I don't press play.
I just sit there.
Thinking about words.
Thinking about silence.
Thinking about how somehow — in the noise between songs and the spaces between seats — we built something.
Something real.
Not flashy.
Not loud.
But ours.
And I finally understand what she meant.
---
> "Somehow, between silence and sound… we found each other."
---