Let's be honest.
Apologies are scams.
They're like vending machines that eat your coins and give you warm soda in return.
You put in vulnerability. You get lukewarm awkwardness.
That's it.
People don't actually want "sorry." They want clarity. An emotional receipt. "I hurt you. You hurt me. Let's pretend we both paid."
But me and Hikari?
We haven't even walked into the same store since she got back.
---
It's been two days since she sat beside me again.
Two days since she pulled my sleeve, whispered I'm scared, and broke open something I wasn't ready to feel.
We've been riding the train like strangers in shared silence.
Not tense silence.
Not the "I hate you and your taste in jazz" silence.
Just… tired silence.
The kind of quiet that says, I want to say something but I'm afraid it'll come out wrong, so here, enjoy the nothing instead.
---
7:42 A.M.
The platform's cold this morning.
Summer humidity finally gave up. Left behind a breeze and a too-blue sky.
She's already inside when I board.
Window seat. Hood up. Earbuds in.
I sit beside her, naturally.
She doesn't look at me.
And I — champion of social apathy and awkward silences — don't either.
---
The train starts moving.
A crow flies by the window.
The guy across from us sneezes like he's trying to eject a demon from his nose.
Still, nothing.
---
I want to say something.
Anything.
But everything feels like a landmine.
> "How are you?"
No. Too casual.
"Are you okay?"
Too serious.
"I missed our weird playlist and your unnecessarily aggressive food takes."
Too much truth.
I do what any coward does when the conversation is emotionally loaded.
I draw.
---
Notebook open. Pencil in hand.
I sketch the train ceiling. The emergency button. Her shoes.
None of it helps.
Then… I glance at her.
She's still looking out the window.
Still pretending I'm not here.
So I draw that too.
Not her face. Just her sleeve, tugging mine. From memory.
The day she almost let me leave. The moment she didn't say sorry, but her hand did.
I don't even think before I do it.
I tear the page out.
Fold it in half.
Slide it across the seat.
It lands beside her hand.
She looks at it.
Then at me.
I look away like the emotionally constipated human I am.
---
Ten seconds pass.
Thirty.
A minute.
Still no response.
Just as I start regretting my entire existence—
She speaks.
"…You're weird."
I glance over.
She's holding the sketch. Not smiling.
But not… not smiling either.
---
I shrug. "I draw when words suck."
"You should write that on a T-shirt."
"Limited edition introvert merch. Comes with silence and guilt."
She snorts. The smallest laugh.
It's a breakthrough. Micro-sized, but real.
---
She folds the drawing again and tucks it into her bag.
Like it's a note she's not ready to read but doesn't want to lose.
Then finally, she speaks again.
"I'm sorry."
It's so soft I almost don't hear it.
I blink. "What?"
She turns her head.
Looks right at me.
No mask. No sarcasm.
"I'm sorry," she repeats. "For vanishing. For saying you shouldn't wait. For being... difficult."
I don't respond right away.
Because I'm not ready for honesty either.
So I say the only thing I can:
"Took you long enough."
She smirks. "You're impossible."
"I contain multitudes. All of them inconvenient."
---
A pause.
Then—
"You were right," she says.
"That's rare. Say it louder."
She ignores me. "I could've said anything. But I didn't. That's on me."
I look at her.
Really look.
There's a tightness around her eyes. Like she didn't sleep. Or cried herself out. Or maybe both.
And suddenly, being clever doesn't feel worth it.
---
I speak slowly.
"Look... I didn't exactly handle it perfectly either."
She tilts her head. "You mean when you exploded on me with jazz-boy angst?"
"That's the official diagnosis, yes."
She laughs again. Softly. Almost like it hurts.
We lapse back into silence.
But it's different now.
This silence isn't avoidance.
It's rest.
---
Then she asks:
"Do you still have the playlist?"
I pull out my phone. Nod.
She leans over.
Plugs in her earbud.
We listen to the first track.
It's the one with the soft trumpet and quiet lo-fi drums — the one that always makes us both weirdly sad and hungry.
She closes her eyes.
Says nothing.
And just like that… the rhythm's back.
---
We ride like that — earphones shared, shoulders brushing — until her stop.
When the doors open, she stands. Doesn't move yet.
Then quietly:
"Thanks for not leaving."
I look up.
"Thanks for finally saying something."
She makes a face. "You're still impossible."
"And you're still complicated."
A pause.
Then—
"I'll see you tomorrow?"
"Only if you bring better songs."
"Deal."
---
She leaves.
And for the first time in a week, I don't feel like the seat beside me is haunted.
I feel like maybe it's just… waiting.
Like everything else.
---