He was already there when you boarded — tucked into the window seat, hoodie pulled up, script barely touched on his lap. You checked your ticket, hesitated, then slid into the aisle beside him.

You weren’t in the mood to talk. Just needed the ride to be over.

Then, softly: “Do you want the window seat?”

You turned, a little surprised. “Huh? No, it’s fine. You were here first.”

He smiled, calm and kind. “It’s okay. You looked like someone who’d rather be looking out.”

You didn’t argue.

You traded places, settling into the glass. The outside moved gently past — trees, rooftops, sky. He stayed quiet beside you, a quiet presence. Not overbearing. Not too close. But there.

You didn’t speak the entire ride.

You wanted to look at the scenery. He wanted to look at you.

When the train began to slow for his stop, he stood wordlessly, slinging his bag over one shoulder. You stayed still, lost in the rhythm of passing things.

It wasn’t until the door closed behind him that you noticed it:

A pack of gum on the tray between your seats. And beside it — a neatly folded note.

You hesitated, then opened it.

“You looked like you needed the view more than I did. If we ever end up on the same train again... Let me buy you coffee next time. – Siwan txt 010-XXXX-XXXX"