---
I arrived fifteen minutes early.
Naturally, I pretended I had just coincidentally wandered to the exact meeting spot at the exact agreed-upon time, as if summoned by fate and punctual anxiety.
In reality, I had been lurking awkwardly by the ticket machine for a quarter of an hour, pretending to read the train schedules like they were ancient prophecies.
I even bought a drink I didn't want just so I could pretend I had purpose.
---
Then she appeared.
Wearing… that.
---
Not what I expected.
Not even remotely close.
Somehow, she looked both overdressed and underprepared — like someone who googled "date outfit" but then panicked halfway and threw on the first thing that felt like a defense mechanism.
A checkered jacket. Loose jeans. Slightly messy bun. Band pins on the strap of her shoulder bag.
She looked like she might be auditioning for a cool indie film I didn't have the emotional stability to handle.
---
"You're early," she said, narrowing her eyes.
"You're... different," I replied, then immediately regretted it.
She blinked. "Different how?"
"You're not in a hoodie."
She smirked. "Wow. I dress one layer above 'goblin' and now I'm unrecognizable?"
"I mean... yes?"
"Rude."
"You're welcome."
---
We stood in awkward silence.
Not the romantic kind. The "two socially damaged teens trying to process mutual attraction in daylight" kind.
Then she said, "Let's go before I decide this was a mistake."
"I've been assuming that since I woke up."
---
Stop One: Record Shop
She led the way — like she knew what she was doing. She didn't. No one does.
The record shop was underground, literally. A cramped little place with blinking lights, floorboards that creaked like they were haunted, and a clerk who looked like he hadn't blinked since 2007.
She dove into the crates like it was treasure hunting.
I awkwardly hovered behind her, trying not to look like a boyfriend or a stalker. The line between the two was dangerously thin.
She pulled out a vinyl.
"Look," she whispered. "This album made me cry in eighth grade."
I read the title: 'Songs to Suffer Beautifully To.'
Of course it did.
She flipped it over.
"I used to think the last track was about love."
"And now?"
"Now I think it's about lactose intolerance."
---
Stop Two: Bookstore
Less dangerous territory. Slightly.
I caught her skimming through a poetry collection titled 'We Loved in Silence, So Loud.'
I judged her silently. She noticed.
"You read light novels about sword guys with trauma. You don't get to judge me."
"I don't read them for the romance."
"Yeah, because you lack emotional growth."
"Thanks."
"You're welcome, emotionally stunted protagonist."
---
She bought a tiny notebook with a constellation pattern on the cover.
"For lyrics," she mumbled.
Then she shoved it in her bag like it embarrassed her to be soft.
I said nothing.
But I noticed.
---
Stop Three: The Park
By this point, the silence between us had evolved.
It wasn't awkward anymore.
It was ambient.
Like the background noise you don't notice until it disappears.
---
We found a bench.
Shared a drink from a vending machine.
Same straw.
Not planned.
Just poor communication and mutual thirst.
She didn't comment on it.
Neither did I.
But my brain refused to stop playing it back in HD for the next thirty minutes.
---
Eventually, she took out her phone.
Tapped open the music app.
"Okay," she said. "New playlist. We each add one song at a time."
I raised an eyebrow. "Live composing?"
"Real-time feelings. Don't overthink it."
I immediately overthought it.
But I added a track anyway. A quiet acoustic thing. No vocals. Just soft chords and the sound of fingers on strings.
She added a chaotic pop song about falling in love at the worst possible time.
Naturally.
---
We kept building it.
Track by track.
I tried to act chill when she added a love song that used metaphors like "he's the winter coat I never zipped up all the way."
She tried not to look when I picked one that had the line: "Even silence sounds better next to you."
We called the playlist:
> "First Time, Every Time."
I made fun of the title.
She kicked me lightly.
I deserved it.
---
The sun started setting.
The bench got colder.
We still didn't move.
She looked at me sideways.
"Hey."
"Hmm?"
"This is weird."
"Agreed."
"But it's kinda..."
"Wonderful?"
She rolled her eyes. "Ugh. You're such a sap."
"You literally cried over a vinyl five hours ago."
"It had emotional depth."
"Sure. You also cried during a melon pan ad once."
"That bread looked so soft, okay?"
---
We didn't kiss.
Not this time.
She looked like she wanted to.
Maybe I did too.
But instead, we stood, stretched, and started walking back toward the station — close, not touching.
The kind of closeness that made your skin hyperaware without needing any contact.
---
At the platform, as the train rolled in, she leaned against the glass behind us.
Then she looked at me, eyes tired in the way that meant full, not empty.
"I like you better in sunlight than I expected," she said.
I smirked.
"Back at you, band gremlin."
---
The train doors opened.
We stepped inside.
Same seats. Same silence.
Same earbud split.
This time, one new track played:
> "The Way We Don't Say It."
---