The train is crowded.
Too crowded.
Which feels poetic and annoying in equal measure.
All year, we had our seat. Our window. Our tiny little universe made of headphones and sideways glances.
Today?
We're just two people standing among a hundred others — crammed together, barely room to shift, the kind of morning commute that turns human beings into sentient coat racks.
And yet…
Somehow, she's still close enough to hear my heart beating.
---
She's in her uniform.
It fits too well now.
The sleeves that used to swallow her wrists are neatly cuffed. The badge no longer tilts like it's afraid of commitment. Her hair's pulled back with purpose. A little gloss. Minimal sarcasm in her expression.
Mature.
But not too mature.
Still Hikari.
---
"You'd think the universe would give us a seat today," she mutters.
"You'd think the universe would do a lot of things."
"Like make this train five percent less sweaty?"
"Or six percent less symbolic."
---
She nudges me.
"I don't like metaphors before 8 a.m."
"Sorry. I forgot you only speak in anime references until lunch."
She shrugs. "It's who I am."
"Tragic."
---
We sway with the train. Not talking. Not needing to.
This is the last time we'll do this — ride this line together, in this uniform, to this stop.
The next ride will be different.
University. Jobs. Life.
All those capital-L things people say will "test your bond" or "define your future."
But right now, all I care about is the weight of her shoulder against mine.
---
Somewhere, a baby cries.
Somewhere else, someone sneezes and doesn't cover their mouth.
It's a perfect, imperfect send-off.
---
She slips a hand into mine. Quietly. No announcement.
Just skin against skin, fingers interlocked like they've done this forever.
I squeeze once.
She squeezes back.
---
At the next stop, a couple exits.
Their seats free up.
She looks at me.
I look at her.
Then we both shake our heads.
No.
We'll stand.
---
"You remember the first day we met?" she asks.
"You took my seat."
"You gave me jazz."
"You insulted me immediately after."
"You deserved it."
"Still do."
---
She smiles.
Not the smirk.
Not the "I'm hiding something" grin.
The soft one — the kind that creases the corners of her eyes and makes her look like she knows exactly who she is.
---
The train starts to slow.
Our stop's coming up.
Graduation ceremony. Family pictures. Speeches. Awkward bowing. Emotional teachers pretending not to cry.
It's all waiting at the next platform.
---
I take a breath.
Not deep.
Just enough.
---
The doors open.
We don't move.
She turns to me.
Eyes a little too shiny for someone who claims "crying is for when the bread runs out."
Then she says it:
> "Next stop… wherever you are."
---
I laugh. Softly.
Because of course she would say something like that and make it sound like poetry.
And of course I would answer like this:
> "Let's be late."
---
We don't get off.
The doors close.
The train pulls forward.
We ride one more loop.
Together.