He never left home without it.
For Rei Matsuoka, music wasn't just a pastime—it was the one thing that made everything feel right. The steady beat in his ears, the verses that knew exactly what he felt when he couldn't find the words himself, the melodies that wrapped around his chest like a warm coat on the coldest days. It was his constant, his ritual, his silence-breaker.
And his earphones? They were sacred.
Rei had owned the same pair for three years. They weren't fancy or expensive. The rubber padding was worn, the cord slightly frayed near the jack, and one earbud had been taped more times than he could count. But they still worked. That was enough. That little pair of tangled wires had gotten him through exam weeks, lonely train rides, rainy afternoons, and quiet nights when the world just felt too heavy.
Until today.
It happened after school, right on the edge of routine. He was on his way to the train station, hands in his pockets, eyes low like always. He'd just queued up his "Evening Chill" playlist—track one: a gentle guitar piece that always made the walk home feel a little softer. But as he pulled the cord to plug it in, he felt something snap.
A pop.
Then silence.
At first, he froze. He took the earpiece out and tried again. Plugged it in. Took it out. Twisted the wire. Blew into the jack like it was some ancient game cartridge. Still nothing.
A crackle. A hiss. And then—static. Dry, hollow static. No music. No rhythm. No heartbeat.
He stood there in the soft shade of the station sign, clutching the broken earphones like they had just confessed betrayal.
It was strange, how something so small could make the world feel unfamiliar.
He shoved them into his pocket, a quiet frustration burning in his chest. The station was its usual blur of suits, backpacks, school uniforms, and echoing announcements—but without his music, it all felt…louder. Uglier. Every step on the pavement. Every conversation. Every laugh that didn't include him.
Rei hated it.
The train arrived with a metallic screech that made him flinch. He boarded quickly and slipped into his usual window seat, second car from the front, third row in. The sun was beginning to dip, painting the city buildings gold as they passed by in fast-forward outside the glass.
Normally, this would be the moment where he shut his eyes and let the songs carry him somewhere else.
Instead, he sat still. Stiff. Hands resting on his lap. Eyes open, watching everything—but feeling nothing.
He could hear the rustle of a girl flipping pages in a manga two seats down. The sharp click of someone's pen behind him. The rhythmic squeak of a loose handrail above. The train's soft sway on its tracks.
All the things he used to drown out.
He hadn't realized just how much he relied on music to make the world quieter.
He pulled the broken earphones out again, staring at them as if maybe, just maybe, they'd magically fix themselves if he waited long enough. A piece of exposed copper wire glinted in the evening light. It was done.
"Guess it's over," he muttered under his breath, more to himself than anyone else.
And yet…he didn't toss them away. Couldn't. They were more than plastic and wire. They were memory. Comfort. A lifeline that now lay silent in his hands.
As the train glided along, Rei leaned back, closed his eyes, and tried to hum a song he knew by heart. But it didn't sound the same.
It didn't feel the same.
He turned his face toward the window, hoping the sunset might offer some kind of peace. The glass was cool against his cheek. Somewhere deep inside him, a single thought rose and echoed:
I hate how quiet everything feels without it.
What he didn't know—what he couldn't possibly guess—was that this silence was the beginning of something else entirely.
Something warmer.
Someone.