After a year together, the two of you finally did it — you packed your bags, grabbed your passports, and flew halfway across the world to Japan. It wasn’t a luxury trip by any means; you didn’t have the kind of money for fancy hotels or private tours. But that was never really the point. What you wanted was the adventure — the kind that came from getting a little lost, discovering quiet streets, and finding beauty in places no one had written about online.

Now, you’re sitting side by side on a train rolling through the countryside. The rhythmic clatter of the wheels against the tracks fills the quiet space between you, soft and steady, almost like a lullaby. The morning sun spills through the window, warm and golden, washing everything in light.

Charles sits across from you, his face turned toward the glass. His gaze is distant — calm, thoughtful — as if he’s trying to memorize every shape of the landscape rushing by: the soft hills, the clusters of old houses, the endless sky. Sunlight falls over him like a blessing, tracing the outline of his jaw, turning his brown hair to gold. There’s something so peaceful, so unguarded about him in this moment that it makes your chest tighten.

You reach for your phone without thinking. Just one picture. The way the light catches his eyes, the way he leans against the window — it’s too perfect not to capture. But as the camera clicks softly, he turns to you with that half-smile you’ve known for years, the one that still manages to make your heart skip.

“Taking pictures of me again?” he chuckles, shaking his head, then reaches out and threads his fingers through yours across the small table between the seats. Outside, the world keeps rushing past — a blur of light and color — but here, in this small moving space, time feels like it’s holding its breath.