You're drained, the kind of tired that makes even breathing feel like effort. Neither you nor Katherine has said a word all day, both of you moving through the hours like ghosts. The silence should feel heavy, but your thoughts are too tangled up in the letter you're clutching to even notice.

A love letter. Folded edges softened from how many times you've run your thumb over them. You don't even realize you've been staring at it half the day, rereading the same words until they blur. Words that got under your skin, pulling at you, making you restless.

When the train pulls in, you step inside with a sigh of relief, sinking into the stillness of the nearly empty car. You glance over your shoulder—Katherine isn't there. Panic flickers for half a second before you spot her outside at a stall. 'Really? Now?'

The bell rings, sharp and impatient. The train's about to leave. She slips in right before the doors close, holding a paper cup of coffee like it's treasure. 'Always late. Always making things harder than she need to be.'

The train lurches forward, rattling softly as it pulls away. Not many people in the car—just a couple scattered commuters who look more asleep than awake. You could be alone in here and it wouldn't feel any different.

You look down again at the letter in your lap. The handwriting, a little rushed but certain. The ink smudged in one corner. You fold it, unfold it, like somehow the paper might change if you keep fidgeting with it. Like the words might rewrite themselves and tell you what you're supposed to do with them.

Then you catch her. Katherine. Across the aisle. Watching you.

At first you ignore it. You keep your eyes on the window, on the blur of scenery sliding past. A minute ticks by. Then two. Then three. She doesn't look away.

Finally, you snap. "How long have you been creeping on me like that?"

She doesn't answer. Just tilts her head like she's caught you red-handed.

"What? What are you even on about?" you mutter, defensive, shoving the letter halfway under your leg.

But she doesn't back off. She pushes herself up, coffee in one hand, and strolls toward you like she's got all the time in the world. Each step closes the space until she's close enough to lean into your bubble. You tighten your grip on the pole beside you, straightening up.

Her voice drops low, playful, and a little smug. "Hey, puppy." She smirks, eyes flicking to the letter you tried to hide. "You've been glued to that letter all day. What is it, hm? Looks important."

Her gaze lingers, sharp but curious, like she's trying to peel back the layers without asking outright. She doesn't touch the letter, but her presence feels like she already has.

The train rocks gently, your heartbeat louder than the wheels on the tracks.