Spring came softly.
It crept in between empty train seats, brushed past park benches, and wrapped its arms around the city in shades of pink and white. Everywhere, petals swirled like little pieces of a song being carried by the wind—unfinished, waiting to land.
Rei stood beneath a cherry blossom tree just outside the canal bridge. The same place where Kana had once said, "You were the boy who hummed."
That line still echoed in his chest like a melody.
She remembered him before he ever knew her.
Now he could finally remember, too.
But more than that—he wanted to build something new. Together.
Today was their unofficial "anniversary." Not of dating, not of titles—but of their first shared earbud on a train, seven weeks ago. Rei had counted each day since.
Kana arrived five minutes late, panting, her scarf barely tied and cherry blossom petals clinging to her hair.
"You're always early," she said, catching her breath.
"I'm always waiting for you," he smiled.
They didn't need to say much. Words had become the silent verses between the music they now shared daily. It was like a habit—one earbud in her ear, one in his, hearts swaying to the same rhythm, worlds aligned without needing to ask what song came next.
Today, though, Rei had something planned.
He reached into his bag and pulled out a thin black case.
Kana tilted her head. "What's this?"
"I've been working on something," Rei said, looking shy for the first time in weeks. "Remember when I said I write music sometimes? I finished a track. It's… it's kind of about us."
Kana blinked. "About us?"
He opened the case. Inside was a small USB stick, wrapped with a piece of red thread. "I call it Whole Song. Because you were the half I didn't know I was missing."
Her lips parted slightly, then curved into a soft, trembling smile.
He handed her the stick.
"Listen to it alone," he said. "Then meet me at the studio after school. I booked a room for us."
Kana took the stick gently, like it was fragile, sacred. "Okay," she whispered. "I will."
---
That evening, Rei sat in the little community music studio tucked near the back of the train station. He watched the door like he had that first day on the train—hoping she'd come, scared she might not.
Then it opened.
Kana stepped inside, her cheeks a little pink, earbuds still hanging around her neck.
"You listened?"
She nodded, and her eyes were glassy. "It made me cry," she said. "But the good kind. The kind you listen to when the world feels too big, and one voice makes it feel small again."
Rei exhaled, relieved.
Then she surprised him. She pulled something from her coat pocket—a small folded sheet of music. "I wrote something, too. Just a verse. I was too scared to ever show it to anyone. But maybe…"
She placed it on the piano. "Maybe you can help me finish it?"
Rei stared at the paper.
Her handwriting was slightly messy, curved, but full of feeling.
> "I sang in silence
afraid you'd hear my cracks
but you hummed beside me
and brought the melody back…"
His throat tightened. "Kana…"
She took a seat at the keyboard, shaky but smiling. "I want to make something new with you. A real song. Our song."
So they did.
Rei played a simple progression—soft, patient, full of space. Kana, nervous at first, found her voice. It wasn't perfect. But it was hers. And it was filled with the kind of raw emotion that couldn't be taught.
They laughed when she hit a wrong note.
They cried when they got it right.
They rewrote the chorus four times and debated which key sounded "more like walking home together under city lights."
By the end of the night, they had something real.
Not just a song.
Not just love.
But a history written in chords and held in verses. The boy who hummed. The girl who remembered. The silence they filled together.
And now—music.
---
Weeks later, Rei uploaded the finished track to a small music-sharing site under the name "Half a Song, Tuned to You." It didn't go viral. It didn't trend.
But it reached people.
People like Kana once was—tired, unsure, scared to sing.
People like Rei had been—lonely, headphones in, hoping someone would listen with him.
And in the comments, someone wrote:
> "This feels like remembering someone you never met. But always loved."
Kana read the comment and smiled.
"That's us," she whispered.
Rei leaned into her shoulder. "Yeah."
They walked home that night sharing the same earbud again, laughing about nothing and everything. The city around them bustled with life, but inside their shared space, there was only music—and the warmth between them.
And just before they parted, Kana looked up and said,
"Promise me we'll keep writing."
Rei smiled, brushing her hair behind her ear.
"As long as there's still music left in me," he said. "I'll write with you."
They leaned into each other
And somewhere between the silence and the song—
They kissed.
The rest of the night played on.
Their song, whole at last.