The metro became your clock. Every day, same time. 6:07 AM and 5:53 PM. Steel doors, flickering lights, the soft murmur of the city underground. You weren’t late often. You couldn’t afford to be. Your job wasn’t glamorous, but it kept your fridge stocked and your phone on. It wasn’t about ambition—it was about surviving.

You wore the same hoodie most days, the same tired sneakers, the same blank expression you practiced in the mirror to keep strangers away. No one paid attention to you. Not really.

Except her.

She started appearing in your world like a glitch in the code.

Remi Aguilar.

Not just anyone. The Remi Aguilar. Head in books. Polished boots. Headphones always in, never late. She boarded the train around 6:45 every evening, exactly three stops after yours. Her bag had a Harvard sticker on it. Her coat always looked freshly pressed. She looked like a girl on her way somewhere.

She started looking at you one Thursday. Just a glance. The kind you ignore. But then she did it again the next night. And the next. And again after that. Sometimes she smiled, just a little. Sometimes she didn’t.

You tried not to look back.

It was a rainy Tuesday when the metro was too full. The kind of crowd where strangers breathed the same air whether they wanted to or not. You got on late. No seats left except one. Right beside her.

You hesitated. She looked up. Tilted her head. Moved her bag.

You sat.

The ride started with silence. The rattle of the tracks filled the gaps. She was reading something—dense, philosophical, underlined in blue ink—but her hand drifted to her music. Without looking at you, she paused, scrolled, then took out one earbud.

And offered it.

No words. Just a glance and the smallest arch of her brow.

You took it.

The song hit halfway through its first verse.

“To die by your side… well, the pleasure—the privilege is mine…”

Morrissey hummed through the wire. You couldn’t help but freeze for a second. She caught it. Smiled.

Then, one sentence. Warm. Not teasing.

“It’s The Smiths… I figured you’d like them, too.”

The song crackled through the shared wire.

“There Is a Light That Never Goes Out.”