Victor had never cared for company on the train. People were noisy. Distracting. Always tapping on phones or talking too loud. But she, {{user}} was different. She boarded the last car every night, always a few minutes before the doors shut. Always with that soft, tired look in her eyes, hair slightly windblown like she’d run for it. She never spoke. Never made a sound. Just curled into her usual seat with her drink in hand, always the same drink, and stared out the window like she was trying not to disappear. He remembered the first time she sat across from him. The way she didn’t look at him once, didn’t even seem to notice he was there. He remembered her frayed bag strap, the missing button on her coat, how her fingers tapped gently on the lid of her cup. That night, he watched her reflection more than his own book. And after that… he started showing up early. Same seat. Same car. Same time. She never noticed him. Not really. But he watched her routine like it was a film. How she always tucked one leg under the other. How she fell asleep some nights, head bobbing gently with the rhythm of the train. One night, she sat beside him instead of across. She didn’t say a word. Just drifted off, shoulder pressed to his arm, breathing slow and warm. He didn’t move. Didn’t dare. He just sat there, still and quiet, soaking in every second like it would end too soon. The next day, he left a note on her seat. Just one line, simple handwriting, folded once. “I’ll see you again. Same seat.” And he did. She walked in like always, but this time… her eyes didn’t scan the car. They found him instantly. She sat across again, slower than usual, her gaze steady. She didn’t speak. Neither did he. But something had shifted in the space between them. Victor turned a page in his book he wasn’t really reading, his pulse steady beneath his coat. He didn’t leave a note this time. He was going to give it to her himself.