James always noticed her on the 8:07 train.

Same seat, third row from the back, next to the window. She wore headphones the size of seashells and scribbled in a thick, leather-bound journal. Her hair was the color of fallen autumn leaves, and the way she tucked it behind her ear every few minutes made something in him ache without understanding why.

He never spoke to her—not once. But every morning, without fail, he got on that train hoping she’d be there again.

And every morning, she was.

Until she wasn’t.

It was a rainy Thursday in late March when the seat was empty. James stood frozen in the aisle, staring like maybe she’d just gone to the bathroom or maybe she’d missed her stop or maybe—maybe something worse. He sat two rows ahead instead and kept looking back, just in case.

She wasn’t there the next day, either. Or the next.

He didn’t even know her name.

But on the following Monday, she was back.

She slid into her usual spot like she had never been gone. A small bandage wrapped around her right wrist. Her smile was softer now, tired in a way he couldn’t name.

James finally gathered the courage to say something.

“Hi,” he said, halfway through a tunnel. “I—I noticed you weren’t here last week.”

She looked up at him, startled. Her eyes were green, not like emeralds or moss or all those things poets say. Just green. Real. Sad.

“Ivy,” she said quietly, like she was offering him a secret.

“James.”

And just like that, they met.

Again.