---
It's been four days since The Kiss™.
Yes, we're calling it that now.
Because apparently, once you kiss someone — even if it's on a train, in public, during rush hour, and one of your earbuds falls out — everything gets a label.
---
We still sit together.
We still share earbuds.
We still pretend the train isn't the only consistent thing in our lives.
Except now...
She's weirder.
Or maybe I'm just noticing it more.
Like how she's started bringing two melon pans every morning. One for her. One that she offers me but stares at as if daring me to refuse.
---
Today, I foolishly take the melon pan without hesitation.
Big mistake.
Huge.
---
"Wait," she says, narrowing her eyes. "You didn't even hesitate. What happened to the ritual 'No, I can't, I skipped breakfast' resistance?"
"I got comfortable."
"Disgusting."
"You literally kissed me last week."
"Out of pity."
"Understood."
---
We sit. Same seats. Same awkward shoulder proximity.
I bite into the melon pan.
She stares.
"Okay, but if you eat the last bite before I'm done, we're breaking up."
"We're not even dating."
She points at my mouth.
"You kissed me and took my bread. That's at least emotional marriage."
---
I consider this.
"I want a prenup. I keep the left earbud if we separate."
She gasps.
"Excuse me? I bring the splitter, I charge the phone, I organize the playlists—"
"And I sit here and look mysterious while sketching."
"You haven't sketched me in days."
"That's because your hair's been behaving. You've lost your tragic appeal."
She narrows her eyes.
I offer her the last bite of the melon pan.
She accepts it dramatically, like I just handed her a wedding ring and my social security number.
---
We queue up a song — one of the "neutral" tracks. No hidden feelings, no implied heartbreak. Just jazzy ukulele over lo-fi rain sounds.
"I read online that couples who make playlists together last longer," she says.
"Source?"
"Me. I just wrote it."
"Peer reviewed?"
"Peer feared."
---
Halfway through the song, she starts humming.
Then aggressively harmonizing.
Then playing air trumpet into my ear.
---
"Stop," I mutter. "People are looking."
"They're jealous of our bond."
"They're confused why a tired jazz ghost and a feral gremlin are doing a concert on a train."
She grins.
"I'm the gremlin?"
"Undeniably."
---
She pokes my cheek.
"Hey."
"What."
"Hey."
"What."
"I like you."
My brain short-circuits.
She smirks.
"Just checking if I can still make you glitch."
"You're awful."
"You're in love."
"Tragically."
---
We near her stop.
She leans in.
"Same time tomorrow?"
"Yeah."
"Bring your own melon pan."
"You're so bossy after one kiss."
She grins again.
"Just wait until kiss two. I might demand royalties."
---
As the train slows, she stands.
She doesn't wave.
Just throws me a piece of paper — folded like a fortune cookie.
I open it as the doors close.
Inside is a scribbled note:
> "Next Stop (ver. 6.0): Kiss Me Again And I'll Pay For Your Udon"
Underneath, she drew a terrible sketch of me crying over a stolen melon pan.
I sigh.
I smile.
I press play.
---