đ Chapter 23: Half-Sick, Half-Healing
Word Count: ~1500
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The train sounded the same.
The same voice announcing the next station.
The same scratchy chime. The same gust of warm morning air from the platform vents that always felt like someone breathing too close to your face.
But something was different.
Not louder.
Quieter.
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She was back.
That should've made everything click into place.
Puzzle solved. Playlist resumed. Boy meets girl again on a train where feelings are exchanged through AUX cables and side glances.
But healing doesn't work like that.
Sometimes, people come back half-sick.
Sometimes, they come back quietly.
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She sat in her usual seat.
Window side.
No mask.
No dramatics.
Just⊠there.
Like her body arrived before her soul did.
---
I sat beside her like it was instinct.
No hesitation.
No questions.
Just a soft routine we both knew how to fold ourselves into.
She didn't speak.
Neither did I.
She didn't have to.
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The playlist was already open on my phone.
"Next Stop," updated last night.
No new tracks. Just a few renamed ones. A song we once shared called Morning Static was now titled Come Back Soon.
Very subtle.
Tragic in a low-effort kind of way.
Classic Hikari.
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She looked at me once, briefly.
Then dropped her head gently on my shoulder.
And stayed there.
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It didn't feel romantic.
Didn't feel cinematic.
No background piano swells. No sunlight breaking through clouds.
Just... warmth. Weight.
The gravity of someone choosing you in silence.
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"I'm not okay," she whispered.
No buildup. No tension.
Just that.
Honest.
Raw.
I wanted to say something clever. Something to lighten the mood. Something dumb like Join the club, we have matching hoodies.
But I didn't.
Because this wasn't about being clever.
This was about staying.
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"You don't have to be," I said.
No dramatics. No inflection.
Just fact.
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She sighed. Not the tired kind.
The kind where you let go of the thing in your chest that's been locked up too long.
Her eyes were still closed when she spoke again.
"Still hate mornings."
I smirked. "Yeah."
Then looked out the window.
"But I kinda love ours."
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She chuckled.
Half-asleep.
Half-sick.
Half-healing.
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I didn't ask what happened this time.
Didn't ask about her mom.
Or the fights.
Or why she ghosted me again like a seasonal event.
She'd tell me when she wanted to.
Or maybe she wouldn't.
I'd still be here.
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The train rattled around the curve.
Sunlight blinked through trees like a slideshow someone forgot to stop.
In the reflection, I saw her.
Still leaning.
Still here.
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We didn't need to fix anything.
Not yet.
Some things didn't need glue.
Just time.
And playlists.
And someone to sit beside you even when you're only showing up at 60%.
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The track changed.
It was one she picked weeks ago. A soft one. No lyrics. Just lo-fi piano and water sounds.
It used to make her cry.
Now it just made her hum â almost inaudibly.
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I didn't even notice she'd taken my hand until halfway through the song.
It wasn't a grip.
Just fingers resting.
Like testing the temperature of something you weren't sure would burn.
I didn't move.
Not because I was afraid.
But because this?
This was her way of saying thank you and I'm still here and don't let go yet.
So I didn't.
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I held her hand like it was the most normal thing in the world.
Not a confession.
Not a promise.
Just a quiet decision.
To stay.
To be soft in a world that keeps trying to make you hard.
To let someone lean without asking when they'll stand up again.
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She didn't speak for the rest of the ride.
Didn't need to.
The music did most of the talking.
So did the silence.
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And somehow, healing sounded a lot like music in one earâŠ
âŠand someone not letting go of your hand.
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