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I didn't mean to write it.
It just… happened.
Like how rain doesn't mean to fall directly into your shoe — it just does. And now you have a soaked sock and no umbrella and a vague sense that the universe is mocking you.
Except this wasn't rain.
This was a song.
And the only person I ever wanted to hear it was her.
---
It started with a sound.
Not a grand one — not a heroic melody or cinematic chord progression.
It was the chime the train makes when the doors open. That awkward little ding-dong followed by a voice that always sounds like it's one yawn away from retirement.
I recorded it on my phone.
Then looped it.
Then built around it.
Notes. Pauses. Rhythms that sounded like heartbeat patterns but only when she was nearby.
---
It wasn't good.
I mean, it was okay. Technically fine. No wrong keys, no glaring mistakes. But it wasn't the kind of thing you play for someone unless you want them to look you in the eye and see every single thing you've never said.
Which, apparently, I now did.
---
So I named the track:
> "Next Stop (Yours)"
Because I'm subtle like a bus in a glass shop.
---
I didn't tell her in person.
That would've been... sincere.
And sincerity is terrifying.
Instead, I put it on a USB.
Wrapped it in an empty melon pan bag for camouflage.
Wrote "don't open this unless you're emotionally prepared" on a sticky note.
And handed it to her on the train like I was doing an illegal exchange.
---
She looked at it.
Then at me.
Then at the note.
Her eyebrow rose.
"Is this a bomb?"
"Worse," I said. "It's feelings."
---
She tucked it into her bag without a word.
Didn't listen to it right away.
Didn't text that night either.
I pretended it didn't matter.
I was very convincing.
Even to myself.
---
The next day, she walked into the train car looking like someone who had watched a sad anime at 3 a.m. while eating cold ramen and questioning her life choices.
In other words: still cute, slightly puffy-eyed, hoodie half-zipped, and carrying a new playlist titled:
> "I Hate You (But This Made Me Cry)"
---
She sat beside me, said nothing.
I didn't look at her.
She didn't look at me.
We both stared ahead like we were trying to mind-control the train into crashing just to break the silence.
Then she pulled out her phone, tapped the screen, and handed me an earbud.
The song started.
My song.
---
There it was — that dumb chime.
The heartbeat drums.
The clumsy little piano line I changed ten times before accepting it was still not perfect.
It played between us like a secret let out into the cold.
---
She leaned her head on my shoulder halfway through.
Didn't say anything.
Didn't need to.
Her hand found mine, light as if asking permission.
I let her take it.
I would've let her take anything.
---
When the track ended, she didn't look up.
Just said, "You're the worst."
Then added, "But this was beautiful."
Then added, "And I cried. And you suck for that."
I smirked.
"You're welcome."
She hit me on the leg.
Then gripped my fingers tighter.
---
Outside, the train pulled into her stop.
She didn't move.
We stayed seated.
The doors opened. Closed. The train moved again.
Still, neither of us said anything about it.
---
"Do I get a song now?" I asked, trying to sound bored.
She shook her head.
"You get something better."
"Oh?"
She kissed me.
---
Just once.
Just soft.
Just enough to reset my heart rate to factory default.
---
"Now we're even," she said, smirking. "Next song's going to be called 'Emo Boy Writes a Banger.'"
"I'll sue."
"You'll cry."
---
She looked out the window.
Smile still there. Still soft. Still slightly dangerous.
"I don't like a lot of things," she said. "But I like this. I like... us."
I swallowed.
Painfully.
"Yeah. Same."
---
She squeezed my hand once before letting go.
Then leaned back, eyes closed.
Earbud still in.
Music still playing.
The train kept moving.
And somehow, everything felt like it was finally getting somewhere.
---