[His POV]
The seat feels colder than usual tonight.
Or maybe it's just me—still half-damp from the rain that caught me on my walk to the stop, notebook tucked under my shirt like it mattered more than staying dry.
The lights outside blur past in long streaks of gold. I don't look at them. I'm too focused on the spot two rows ahead, across the aisle.
She's there again.
Same headphones. Same quiet posture. Elbows tucked close to her body, like she's trying to shrink into the background. She doesn't look up right away, and I'm not sure if I want her to.
Not because I don't want to talk.
But because I'm not sure what I'd say.
I've been thinking about that conversation for two days feels weird. So does you made me want to write again.
I settle into my seat.
Open my notebook.
The words don't come.
Her shoulder shifts, just a little. Head tilts. Then she turns.
Eyes meet.
"Hey," she says softly. Her voice is gentler this time. Less cautious.
"Hey," I answer, and something about it feels like an echo. Familiar in a way I can't name.
There's a pause. Not uncomfortable. Just space.
"You still thinking about Under the Moonlight?" she asks.
I smile, then nod. "Yeah. I re-read a chapter last night. Number 48."
She raises an eyebrow. "That's the one with the bonfire, right?"
"Yeah. Where the protagonist finally lets himself talk about what he lost."
"That's one of my favorites." Her voice dips into something like nostalgia. "It was so quiet. But it said everything."
I glance down at my notebook. "I wrote something after reading it. Not fanfic—just… something it reminded me of."
She leans forward slightly. "Can I hear it?"
I hesitate.
It's messy. It's barely a paragraph. But she asked like she meant it.
I clear my throat and read from the page, eyes tracing over rushed ink.
"Sometimes it's not about what was taken, but what was never said when we had the chance. And sometimes the quietest goodbye is the one that haunts you the longest."
She doesn't say anything at first.
Then: "That's really good."
A pause.
"Sad. But good."
I nod. "I didn't mean for it to be sad. Just honest."
She looks at me like she understands. Really understands. That rare kind of listening that doesn't need explaining.
"I write too," she says, surprising me. "Not often. And not anything good. But… sometimes. When I can't sleep."
"I think that's when the best stuff comes out," I say, smiling.
A faint blush colors her cheeks. She looks down at her phone. "Do you ever post online?"
"Not really," I admit. "Too nervous. I keep thinking people will hate it. Or worse—ignore it."
She hums softly. "They wouldn't. Not if it's like that."
I watch her for a moment, wondering if she means it. If she's saying it because she knows what it feels like to need someone to believe in your words before you do.
A thought hits me.
"What's your favorite chapter?" I ask.
"Of Nymphaea's book?"
"Yeah."
She's quiet for a second. "Chapter 12."
I blink. "That's an early one."
"It's the first time the protagonist realizes he's not alone. That part where he finds the letter? It's short, but… I don't know. Something about it stayed with me."
I smile slowly. "That's a good one. I forgot about that scene."
She looks out the window then, eyes catching the reflection of the world rushing by.
I wonder what she sees.
I wonder if she knows she's someone worth writing about.
⸻
[Her POV]
He read to me.
I didn't expect that.
Most people guard their writing like something fragile. But he just opened his notebook and let the words fall into the space between us, like it wasn't a risk.
And it made me want to say more than I should.
I haven't told anyone I'm Nymphaea. Not friends. Not family. Not the girl I live with. It's the only part of me that feels completely mine.
But talking to him is dangerous.
Not in the way romance novels always warn you about—with red flags and heartbreak.
No, it's dangerous because it makes me want to share. Makes me want to be seen.
That's scarier.
He's kind. In that quiet way where you know he doesn't do it for attention. He listens like he's actually collecting the things you say, folding them neatly, keeping them somewhere safe.
And when he talked about Chapter 48…
That chapter took three days to write. I rewrote it twice. I cried during the first draft and deleted most of it the next morning. I didn't think anyone would even remember it.
But he did.
He remembered the bonfire. The confession. The pain wrapped in silence.
And now he's sitting two seats away, like he's just another person in the world, not someone holding my words like they mean something.
The bus jolts slightly. We're nearing his stop.
"I hope you post someday," I say, eyes still on the glass. "You have a voice people need to hear."
He doesn't answer right away. I don't mind.
Some things don't need replies.
The bus slows. He stands, notebook tucked under one arm, jacket clutched in the other.
"Same time tomorrow?" he asks, a little unsure.
I nod.
And just like that, he's gone.
I open the notes app on my phone.
Chapter 113 – Title: Things We Don't Say Yet
I type one line.
"Maybe this is how it starts. Not with grand gestures—but with someone hearing you read your worst lines, and still wanting to hear more."