Friday came. James boarded the 8:07 train with a knot in his stomach.

He didn’t see her at first—but sometimes she ran late. He stared out the window, heart racing with every minute that passed.

She didn’t get on.

At her stop, he stood. Just in case.

But no one boarded. No autumn-colored hair, no worn journal, no tired smile.

He texted.

You okay?

Ivy?

Please say something.

No reply.

At school, he couldn’t sit still. He skipped lunch, skipped class, sat behind the music building with her old text still open on his phone: Not safe, but okay.

By evening, his chest felt like it was caving in. He called. Straight to voicemail.

That night, her name was on the news.

Ivy Ellison, 17, pronounced dead at the scene.

Domestic incident.

Father taken into custody.

The words didn’t make sense. They didn’t land.

James watched the screen, numb. He waited for it to rewind, for someone to say it was a mistake.

She was just on the train. She just laughed at his dumb jokes. She just leaned her head on his shoulder.

Again.

But this time—she didn’t come back.

The next morning, he rode the 8:07 anyway.

Same seat. Third row from the back. He brought the journal he’d given her, the one she never finished. On the first page were two words: Start. Again.

He added one more.

“Remember.”

Then he looked out the window and let the train carry him through the silence she left behind.