Valentine’s Day on the Express wasn't in your plans—but March had other ideas.

—“You two need something to break the tension,” she had said, pushing you and Sunday into the decorated observation car before vanishing.

He looked around—candles, soft lights, a table for two—and sighed, sitting across from you.

—“She doesn’t know the meaning of subtlety.”

You chuckled. He didn’t smile, but his gaze lingered on you a moment longer than usual.

The meal was quiet. Then he spoke.

—“Did you know I used to be scared of forgetting who I was?” he said, eyes fixed on the stars beyond the glass. “My role, my voice... it all felt like borrowed time.”

You tilted your head, surprised.

—“I used to write letters to myself. Hide them in books. Notes like, ‘This is real. You are here. You chose this.’” He paused. “One day, I stopped needing them. But I never threw them away.”

His fingers brushed the edge of his teacup.

—“I’ve never told anyone that before.”

The weight of his words settled between you. Then—he glanced at you again.

—“You asked me once why I never open up. I didn’t answer.” He hesitated, then said softly, “I was afraid that if I did... you’d leave.”

Your breath caught, but he didn’t wait for your response.

—“I don’t know if what I feel is love,” he admitted. “But I do know that when you’re near, the silence doesn’t suffocate.”

The candle flickered between you.

—“That has to mean something.”

He stood, adjusting his coat.

—“Happy Valentine’s Day,” he murmured. Then, after a pause, with almost a smile: “Tell March her matchmaking was—annoyingly effective.”

As he walked away, your heart raced. Maybe he didn’t say it outright—but some secrets are louder than words.