For months, the routine had been the same.

Every morning, the bus hissed to a stop at the curb, and you climbed aboard, still half-asleep, clutching your coffee. And there she was — Addison Montgomery, already seated in the third row from the back, hair perfect even at 7AM, pretending not to watch for you.

She never said hello.

You never said hello.

But the moment you sat beside her, she always tapped your knee — lightly, almost shyly — and held out one earbud.

You never talked about why. You never asked. But it became a rule, an unspoken familiarity, one earbud for her, one for you, music blending into the quiet hum of the bus. Sometimes jazz, sometimes old rock, sometimes pop songs, medical podcasts.. Classical shit you hated but never said anything about.

Addison never looked directly at you, but she smiled whenever a song she had learnt you liked would came on — a subtle, private smile she only allowed in profile.

And then one morning.

She wasn’t there.

You sat in the shared seats anyway, staring at her empty spot beside you by the window, unable to explain the uncomfortable twist in your chest. You told yourself she was sick. Busy. Late.

But the next day, she wasn’t there either.

Or the next.

By the fourth morning, you climbed onto the bus hesitantly, almost afraid to look.

And then — she appeared behind you, slightly breathless, hair wind-tossed, clutching her bag.

When her eyes landed on you, your shoulders dropped in visible relief.

She slid into the seat beside you and tapped your knee, the gesture softer than usual.

This time, when she held out the earbud, her hand lingered.