Prologue – The Train Ride
The carriage was almost empty, save for the hum of wheels against the tracks and the faint reflection of city lights against the window.
Jade sat quietly, his fingers clutching the strap of his bag as though it might tether him to something real. Outside, rain slid down the glass in uneven streams, warping the night into something ghostly. He stared, unblinking, until his own reflection began to merge with the blurred lights.
But it wasn’t himself he saw.
It was Ash.43Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡa4H6jquXWl
That smile that always came too easily. That laugh, deep and unrestrained, as if the world never had enough weight to crush him. Even now, Jade could almost hear it echoing faintly over the sound of the train.
And then the silence pressed in harder, suffocating.
Because Ash was gone.
Jade pressed his forehead to the cold glass, shutting his eyes. The stations blurred past, each one a reminder of moments they once shared. The train had been theirs their sanctuary, their witness to countless nights when the world felt too small for their love and too big for their fears.
Now, the seats were empty, and Jade was alone.
But memory has its own way of traveling, and it pulled him back to the beginning.
Chapter One – First Stop: Ash
The first time Jade saw Ash, it was raining too.
Jade was seventeen, running late for class, half-drenched, and desperately juggling his sketchbook under his jacket. He had slipped into the train just as the doors closed, panting, only to find every seat taken. Except one.
The boy sitting beside it looked up. Broad shoulders. Dark hair still damp from the weather. He wore his uniform like he didn’t care tie loose, blazer unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up. His eyes caught Jade’s for a moment, steady and unbothered, before he tilted his head toward the empty spot.
“You can sit,” he said simply.
Jade hesitated. He was used to stares, sometimes mocking, sometimes dismissive. But this boy’s tone carried no judgment, just quiet certainty. So Jade slid into the seat, clutching his sketchbook tightly.
For a while, neither spoke. The train rattled on, filled with chatter from other students. Jade tried to ignore the way his seatmate’s knee brushed against his once or twice with the train’s sway. He tried not to notice how calm the boy seemed, gazing out the window like the storm outside didn’t matter.
“Drawing?” the boy suddenly asked.
Jade blinked, realizing his sketchbook was half-visible. He pulled it closer. “Uh… yeah.”
The boy leaned a little, curiosity plain but not invasive. “Can I see?”
Most people didn’t ask. They just grabbed or peeked without permission. But something about the way he asked casual, but respectful — made Jade pause. Slowly, he opened the book to the last page: a messy but heartfelt sketch of the train station itself.
The boy studied it, then gave a short, approving nod. “That’s good. You see details most people miss.”
Jade flushed, unused to compliments. “It’s… nothing special.”
“It’s yours. That makes it special.”
Jade turned to look at him properly. The boy’s smile was easy, warm in a way that felt undeservedly direct. “I’m Ash,” he said, extending a hand.
Jade hesitated again, then shook it. “...Jade.”
From that day, the train ride was never the same.
The days stretched into weeks. Rain gave way to sun, but Jade found himself slipping into the same carriage, the same seat, more often than coincidence could explain. Ash was always there — sometimes already waiting, sometimes running in just before the doors closed, grinning as if every moment were an adventure.
“You’re always drawing,” Ash said one morning, leaning over Jade’s shoulder without warning. His hair brushed Jade’s cheek, and Jade’s fingers froze mid-line.
“You’re always nosy,” Jade muttered, though his voice lacked heat.
Ash laughed, unbothered, and Jade felt something tighten in his chest. That laugh was unlike anything else in his world — unashamed, alive.
“What’s that supposed to be?” Ash asked, pointing at the paper.
Jade sighed, brushing his pencil across the page. “It’s the river by the old bridge.”
Ash tilted his head, squinting. “Looks better than the real thing.”
That made Jade snort softly. “You’ve got terrible eyesight.”
“Maybe,” Ash replied, leaning back with a grin, “or maybe I just like the way you see things.”
Jade’s hand stilled again, the pencil hovering over the paper. No one had ever said that to him before.
They began to talk more after that. Not just on the train, but in the hallways at school, in the cafeteria where Ash would slide his tray down next to Jade’s without asking, in the quiet corners of the library where Ash would nap while Jade sketched.
Ash was a storm loud, unpredictable, sometimes reckless. But he was also a shelter. With him, Jade felt less like a shadow slipping unnoticed through the world, and more like someone who mattered.
One late afternoon, as the train rattled toward their stop, Ash asked, “Why do you draw so much?”
Jade hesitated, eyes on his hands. “Because it’s the only way I know how to keep things.”
“Keep things?”
“Memories,” Jade said softly. “Moments. People leave. Places change. Drawing makes them stay a little longer.”
Ash was quiet for a beat, then said, “So… am I in there?”
Jade froze, heat rushing to his face. He snapped the sketchbook shut. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
Ash only laughed, leaning back with that maddening confidence. But later, when Jade was alone in his room, he opened the sketchbook and found pages filled with Ash’s smile, Ash’s hands, Ash looking out the window with sunlight in his hair.
He hadn’t even realized how much he’d been drawing him.
One evening, the train was unusually empty. Jade sat across from Ash this time, sketchbook in his lap, while Ash sprawled lazily with his arms draped over the seat.
“Do you ever think about the future?” Ash asked suddenly.
Jade blinked. “The future?”
“Yeah. Like… where you’ll be. Who you’ll be with. Stuff like that.”
Jade hesitated. The future had always felt too heavy to think about. Too uncertain. “I guess… not really. I just… draw. One page at a time.”
Ash’s gaze softened. “That’s kind of beautiful.”
“Beautiful?” Jade scoffed. “It’s pathetic.”
“It’s not,” Ash said firmly. “It means you live in the moment. That’s something I wish I could do.”
Their eyes met, and Jade felt something stir deep inside him, something that both terrified and thrilled. The train rocked gently, the world blurring past, and for a second, it felt like time itself had slowed, like they were suspended between stations just the two of them.
Jade looked away first, his pulse loud in his ears.
That night, he drew until his fingers ached. Not landscapes. Not objects. Just Ash. Always Ash.
Part 2: Love Between Stops
The train had become their meeting place.
Weeks passed, then months, and somehow Ash and Jade kept finding each other between stops — as if the rails themselves conspired to pull them together.
Ash always filled the silence first. He’d talk about music, about the stray cat that followed him after school, about the stars he swore looked different depending on which station you stood at. Jade rarely answered with more than a sentence or two, but Ash never seemed to mind. He carried the conversations with such ease that Jade sometimes wondered if Ash was afraid of silence, or if he simply hated the idea of Jade feeling alone.
One morning, Ash nudged Jade’s shoulder with his elbow. “Hey. Draw me.”
Jade blinked, clutching his sketchbook closer. “What?”
“You draw stations, rivers, benches. Why not me?” Ash grinned. “Come on. Make me look handsome.”
“You’d just laugh at it,” Jade muttered.
“I promise I won’t.” Ash leaned closer, lowering his voice. “I’ll treasure it. Cross my heart.”
The sincerity caught Jade off guard. Reluctantly, he flipped to a fresh page. Ash tried to sit still, though his grin kept twitching wider every time their eyes met. Jade frowned, trying to focus, but the curve of Ash’s mouth distracted him more than he’d admit.
When he finally finished, he snapped the book shut before Ash could peek.
“Hey!” Ash protested.
“It’s not good,” Jade said quickly.
Ash gave him that steady look — the one that always seemed to cut through his defenses. “It’s yours. That makes it good enough.”
Jade’s chest tightened.
It was on another rainy evening when things began to shift. The train was nearly empty again, just the rhythm of wheels against tracks and the glow of wet streetlights flickering past.
Ash leaned his head against the window, his reflection merging with the dark glass. “You ever feel like the world’s moving too fast?” he asked softly.
“All the time,” Jade admitted.
Ash glanced at him, surprised by the honesty. For a moment, neither of them looked away. The distance between their seats felt smaller, charged with something neither wanted to name yet.
Jade’s throat was dry when he finally asked, “What do you do when it feels like that?”
Ash smiled faintly. “I find something to hold on to.”
He didn’t say what, but Jade felt the weight of the words sink deep.
At school, their closeness didn’t go unnoticed. Ash never hid it — he’d throw an arm around Jade’s shoulders, tease him in the hallways, claim the seat beside him without hesitation. Jade, who had spent so long trying to stay invisible, didn’t know what to do with the sudden spotlight.
“You don’t care what people say?” Jade asked one afternoon after hearing whispers trail behind them.
Ash shrugged. “Let them talk. I know who I am. I know who you are.”
“And who am I?” Jade challenged quietly.
Ash’s grin softened into something gentler. “The person I like being around the most.”
Jade’s heart skipped. He turned away quickly, pretending to sketch something on the margin of his notebook, but his hands trembled just enough to smudge the paper.
The first time their hands touched wasn’t dramatic. They were on the train again, squeezed into a seat meant for two while the carriage crowded with strangers. Jade’s hand rested stiffly on his lap until Ash’s fingers brushed against his.
For a moment, Jade thought it was an accident. But Ash didn’t pull away. Slowly, deliberately, he let his hand settle over Jade’s, warm and steady.
Jade’s breath caught. He didn’t move.
The train rocked gently, stations slipping by unnoticed. The world outside blurred, but Jade felt every heartbeat, every shared breath, every silent promise in the way Ash held him.
And in that quiet space between stations, Jade realized: this wasn’t just friendship. It hadn’t been for a long time.
That weekend, Ash dragged Jade to the riverbank he’d once mentioned. They sat side by side, sneakers almost touching the water.
“You really like to draw, huh?” Ash asked, watching Jade’s pencil dance across the page.
“It’s the only thing I’m good at,” Jade said.
“That’s not true,” Ash replied instantly. “You’re good at listening. You’re good at noticing things no one else does. You’re good at… making the world feel less heavy.”
Jade looked up, startled. “You… you really think that?”
Ash shrugged, smiling faintly. “I don’t say things I don’t mean.”
Something fluttered in Jade’s chest, a strange mix of fear and joy. He bent his head quickly back to the page, sketching Ash before the moment slipped away.
This time, he didn’t hide the drawing.
Ash’s eyes lit up when Jade turned the sketchbook toward him. “Wow. You made me look… better than I am.”
Jade’s lips twitched. “No. That’s how I see you.”
The words slipped out before he could stop them, and Ash went quiet, watching him with an intensity that made Jade’s skin burn. For once, Ash didn’t joke, didn’t laugh. He just held Jade’s gaze, steady and searching, until Jade had to look away.
A week later, under the soft hum of the train’s late-night ride, it happened.
They were alone in the carriage, shadows stretching across empty seats. Ash leaned in, closer than ever before, his voice low. “Jade…”
Jade swallowed hard. “What?”
“You’re important to me.”
Jade’s breath hitched. His heart pounded so loud he was sure Ash could hear it. He turned his face toward the window, but Ash gently caught his chin, tilting it back.
For a heartbeat, the world held still. Then Ash kissed him.
It was brief, tentative, almost fragile but it was enough. Enough to unravel Jade’s carefully built walls, enough to tell him that what they shared wasn’t one-sided. That it was real.
When Ash pulled back, his forehead rested against Jade’s. “See? Not so scary.”
Jade’s lips trembled. He wanted to argue, but instead, he whispered, “It is. Because I don’t want to lose this.”
“You won’t,” Ash promised softly. “Not as long as I’m here.”
Outside, the train slid into another station, but neither of them noticed. Their world existed only in the space between stops, where time slowed and love quietly bloomed.
Part 3: Departure
The summer of their last year in school came quietly, with the cicadas buzzing and the days stretching long and heavy.
Ash and Jade had made the train their ritual. Every morning, every afternoon, every stolen evening when Jade could slip away from home without questions. Their love had grown in the quiet — secret smiles, lingering touches, kisses pressed behind station pillars when no one was watching.
To everyone else, they were just two boys sharing rides. But to them, the train was a world of its own, one where they were safe, where the sound of the tracks drowned out the voices that might condemn them, where each station felt like a promise: I’ll be here. I’ll still be here.
But life was louder outside the train.
Jade’s mother had always been practical, stern in her love. She worked long hours, her back bent by the weight of keeping their small household afloat. She never quite understood Jade’s obsession with sketching. She wanted him to have stability, a life that wasn’t fragile.
So when the envelope arrived, her eyes lit with a kind of pride Jade had rarely seen directed at him.
“You got into the program,” she said, pushing the letter across the table. Her hands trembled with restrained excitement. “In the city. This is your chance, Jade. Don’t waste it.”
Jade skimmed the words without really absorbing them. Art program. Scholarship. Future. They looked like triumphs on paper, yet his chest felt hollow.
That night, he lay awake, the letter beside him, staring at the ceiling. The shadows of the train’s windows haunted him, replaying Ash’s laughter, his touch, the way his voice softened only for Jade.
How could he leave that behind?
“You should go,” Ash said when Jade finally told him.
They were sitting at their spot by the riverbank, the one that had become theirs. The evening sun turned the water gold, and Ash’s profile glowed as he looked out over it.
Jade’s throat tightened. “You want me to leave?”
Ash turned to him, brows furrowing. “No. But I want you to have a future. You’re too good to stay stuck here.”
Jade looked down at his hands. “But what about us?”
For the first time, Ash hesitated. The silence between them stretched, heavy with everything neither of them knew how to promise.
Finally, Ash reached over and took Jade’s hand, squeezing it. “We’ll figure it out. Trains go both ways, right? You’ll come back.”
Jade wanted to believe him. He wanted to believe that love was enough to bridge the distance, that the stations between them would never stretch too far.
But doubt had already begun to seep in, quiet and merciless.
The weeks before Jade’s departure were filled with more stolen moments, more desperate touches.
Ash walked him home more often, even when it meant doubling back miles. He carried Jade’s sketchbook when his bag grew too heavy, teasing him about drawing too much. He kissed him behind the old vending machine near the platform, hands cupping his face like he was afraid Jade might vanish if he let go.
“Stop looking so gloomy,” Ash whispered once, brushing Jade’s hair back. “It’s not like you’re leaving forever.”
“But what if—”
“No what-ifs.” Ash pressed a finger to his lips. “I’ll be here. Always.”
Jade wanted to trust him, but fear gnawed at him like a persistent shadow.
The night before he left, Jade snuck out to meet Ash one last time.
The train station was quiet, the last departure already gone. They sat on the cold bench under flickering fluorescent lights, their hands laced together.
Ash rested his head on Jade’s shoulder. “You know, I always thought trains were kind of sad. They’re always leaving. Always saying goodbye.”
Jade’s throat ached. “Then why do we keep riding them?”
“Because they also come back.” Ash’s voice was soft, almost hopeful. “And so will you.”
Jade closed his eyes, memorizing the warmth of Ash’s weight against him, the faint smell of rain clinging to his clothes, the way his thumb traced small circles against the back of his hand.
“I don’t want to forget this,” Jade whispered.
“Then don’t,” Ash said simply. “Keep it in your drawings. Keep me there too.”
Jade swallowed hard. “Promise me something.”
“Anything.”
“Don’t forget me.”
Ash chuckled, though his voice trembled faintly. “Idiot. You’re unforgettable.”
Jade’s eyes burned, and this time he didn’t hide it. Tears slipped free, and Ash kissed them away, his lips lingering against his skin like a vow.
The train carried Jade away the next morning.
Ash was there on the platform, waving until the distance swallowed him whole.
Jade pressed his palm to the glass, his chest aching with every mile that stretched between them. He opened his sketchbook, and for the first time, the page blurred beneath drops that weren’t from rain.
He drew anyway.
Ash’s smile. Ash’s eyes. Ash, waiting on the platform, frozen in the moment Jade wished could last forever.
The city was louder, faster, everything his mother had wanted for him. But in the quiet of his small dorm room, surrounded by unfamiliar walls, Jade felt only the emptiness of the train carriage without Ash beside him.
The distance was supposed to be temporary. A pause between stations.
But sometimes, pauses stretch too long.
Part 4: The Last Message
The city was fast, merciless.
Jade filled sketchbooks with strangers’ faces, cityscapes, the blur of headlights. Professors praised him, called him promising, a talent worth nurturing. His mother’s letters brimmed with pride, telling neighbors her son would become an artist the world would know.
On the surface, it was everything Jade had been told to want.
But every night, Jade found himself staring at his phone, waiting for Ash’s messages.
At first, they came often. Photos of the river. The stray cat that now had kittens. Selfies of Ash pulling ridiculous faces, captions like “Bet you miss this handsome guy.”
Jade would roll his eyes and smile despite himself. He’d reply with drawings: quick sketches of the city skyline, doodles of coffee cups, once even a caricature of Ash’s grin.
It wasn’t the same, but it was something.
Then, slowly, the messages grew fewer.
Ash stopped sending photos, just short lines instead: “Busy today.” “Tired.” “Talk later.”
Jade told himself it was school, work, life. He told himself not to be clingy. But unease gnawed at him all the same.
One night, as rain streaked the dorm windows, Jade’s phone buzzed.
It wasn’t Ash.
It was Ash’s mother.
Her words were brief, polite, but heavy enough to knock the air from his lungs.
“Ash is in the hospital. You should come.”
The room tilted. Jade dropped the phone, his hands numb. Then panic surged and he gathered it again, rereading the message until the words blurred. Hospital. Ash.
He packed without thinking, sketchbook and pencil case shoved into his bag alongside clothes. He caught the first train back, the city lights vanishing into the darkness behind him.
Every mile felt endless. Every station was too slow. His reflection in the window looked like a ghost — pale, frantic, clutching the strap of his bag as if it were the only thing tethering him to reality.
The hospital smelled of antiseptic and something heavier — something Jade didn’t want to name.
Ash was pale when Jade entered the room, his skin washed out under fluorescent lights. His lips were dry, his hair messier than Jade had ever seen.
But when their eyes met, Ash smiled. Weak, but unmistakably him.
“Hey, artist,” Ash rasped, his voice roughened. “You made it.”
Jade’s throat closed. He rushed to the bedside, gripping Ash’s hand like he could anchor him there. “What happened? Why didn’t you tell me?”
Ash’s laugh was thin, barely a breath. “Didn’t want to worry you. You’ve got your future to think about.”
“Damn my future,” Jade snapped, tears stinging. “You’re—” His voice broke. He couldn’t say it. He wouldn’t.
Ash squeezed his hand faintly. “I’m okay. Just… tired. Doctors are doing what they can.”
Jade shook his head, pressing his forehead against Ash’s hand. “You should have told me sooner.”
“I knew you’d drop everything and run back.” Ash’s lips curved faintly. “And I didn’t want to be the reason you stopped moving forward.”
Days blurred into each other. Jade stayed at the hospital, sketching by Ash’s bedside.
He drew Ash sleeping, Ash smiling faintly at jokes, Ash’s hand curled weakly around his. He filled page after page, desperate to capture every angle, every expression, terrified that each sketch might be the last.
“I’m becoming your most drawn subject, huh?” Ash teased one afternoon, his voice thin but playful.
“You always were,” Jade whispered, eyes never leaving the page.
Ash blinked, surprised, then smiled — softer this time, like the weight of the world had melted for a moment.
They talked about everything and nothing.
About their favorite train rides. About the cat and her kittens. About Jade’s professors and how proud Ash was, though he pretended to be jealous of the city taking Jade away.
Sometimes, Ash would drift off mid-conversation, his hand still tangled with Jade’s. Jade would sit there in silence, counting each shallow rise and fall of his chest, terrified of the moment it might stop.
At night, Jade barely slept. Machines beeped steadily, nurses walked briskly through hallways, and Jade sat awake, sketching in the dim light. He sketched Ash’s profile again and again, trying to immortalize what he was most afraid of losing.
Once, when Jade thought Ash had drifted asleep, a whisper broke the quiet.
“Jade.”
He looked up instantly. Ash’s eyes were open, tired but clear.
“If I don’t…” Ash’s voice faltered. He swallowed. “If I can’t stay—”
“Don’t.” Jade’s voice cracked. “Don’t say that.”
Ash gave him a look — steady, stubborn, the same look he gave when Jade tried to hide his drawings. “If I can’t, I need you to remember something.”
Tears blurred Jade’s vision. “What?”
Ash smiled faintly. “That I loved you. More than anything. More than every station, every mile.”
Jade broke then, clutching his hand, sobbing into the sheets. “Don’t talk like you’re leaving. Please, Ash.”
Ash stroked his hair weakly. “Shh. I’m not leaving. Not really. I’ll always be with you. Between the lines you draw. Between the stations.”
But Jade knew. Deep down, he knew.
Ash passed a week later.
The world felt hollow, like the trains had stopped moving, like every clock had broken.
At the funeral, Jade couldn’t breathe. The murmur of voices blurred around him. He couldn’t look at the casket. He held his sketchbook to his chest like a shield, his fingers aching from clutching it too tightly.
Ash’s mother pressed an envelope into his hands afterward. Her eyes were red, her voice hoarse. “He wanted you to have this.”
Jade unfolded it in trembling hands. Inside was a single sheet of paper, Ash’s handwriting messy but familiar.
Jade,43Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡQZtZQvYZHY
If you’re reading this, it means I couldn’t keep my promise to stay. I’m sorry. I wanted more time. I wanted all the time in the world with you.43Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡn04yR5Oqjb
But listen. Don’t stop riding trains. Don’t stop drawing. Don’t stop moving forward. Carry me with you in your sketches, in your memories. Carry me between stations. I’ll be there, in every pause, in every silence. You’ll find me.43Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡhS9ev8eCxP
Thank you for giving me something worth holding on to.43Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡESX1XTk2Ga
Always yours,43Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡaHhB7UuSPT
Ash
Jade’s tears fell onto the paper, smudging the ink. He pressed it to his chest, gasping for breath.
In that moment, he hated the trains. He hated the way they kept moving, the way stations came and went while Ash never would again.
But later, when he finally boarded the train home, he understood.
The world outside blurred past, stations flickering in the dark. And in the reflection on the glass, faint but unmistakable, Jade saw Ash’s smile.
Part 5: Sadness Between Stations
The first train Jade took after the funeral felt unbearable.
He sat by the window, sketchbook in his lap, hands trembling. The seats were the same. The stations rolled by in the same order. The same advertisements peeled on the walls, the same fluorescent lights flickered overhead.
But without Ash beside him, the spaces felt hollow.
The rhythm of the wheels against the rails was no longer a comfort. It was a wound, a cruel reminder that the world kept moving when Ash could not. Every screech of metal against track felt like it tore something new inside him.
He almost stopped riding altogether.
But Ash’s words haunted him. “Don’t stop riding trains. Don’t stop drawing. Carry me with you between stations.”
So he rode. And he drew.
At first, his sketches were nothing but grief.
Page after page filled with Ash’s face, Ash’s hands, Ash’s smile — but each expression distorted by the trembling of Jade’s hands. Sometimes Ash looked too fragile, like he would crumble from the page. Sometimes Jade pressed too hard, the pencil snapping under the weight of his anger.
He drew stations too, empty and cold. Benches where they once sat, rendered in harsh lines. Windows without reflections.
It wasn’t art. It was mourning.
Professors, however, praised him. They saw “raw emotional honesty.” They told him his work carried depth beyond his years. Critics began to notice. People whispered about the boy whose sketches made them cry.
But Jade knew the truth. They weren’t seeing brilliance. They were seeing desperation — graphite soaked with grief.
Time passed, but grief did not vanish. It shifted.
There were days Jade couldn’t get out of bed, his chest too heavy. Days he rode the train aimlessly, sketching strangers just to pretend Ash was among them. Days he cursed the world for being cruel enough to give him love only to take it away.
But there were also quieter days, when memories of Ash made him smile instead of break. When he could almost hear Ash’s laughter in the clatter of wheels. When he caught his reflection in the train window and, for a fleeting second, thought he saw Ash beside him.
Those were the days he drew softer.
Not just grief, but love. Not just loss, but beginnings. He drew Ash holding his hand, Ash grinning with mischief, Ash pressing a kiss to his hair. He drew the small happinesses they had shared, moments too fragile for anyone else to understand but him.
And slowly, his art changed.
Years passed. The boy who once hid his drawings in the margins of notebooks became an artist whose work filled galleries.
But Jade never forgot where it began — on train rides, between stations, with Ash’s laughter echoing against the windows.
One exhibit drew particular attention.
It was called “Sadness Between Stations.”
The collection was simple: sketches of trains, stations, windows, empty seats. But if one looked closer, there was always something more — a reflection in the glass, a figure waiting on a platform, a shadow leaning just out of sight.
To anyone else, it was ambiguity. To Jade, it was Ash.
Critics called it haunting, evocative. Strangers wept without knowing why. Some said they could feel the presence of someone missing.
For Jade, it wasn’t about critics. It was about keeping Ash alive in the lines. About refusing to let him vanish.
On the night the exhibit closed, Jade rode the train home.
The carriage was nearly empty, just like the first time he met Ash. Rain streaked the windows, blurring the lights outside into rivers of gold.
Jade sat by the window, sketchbook balanced on his knees. He was older now — his hair longer, his frame leaner, his face sharper — but inside he still carried the boy who once hid from the world until Ash sat beside him.
He opened the sketchbook to a blank page. For a moment, he simply stared at it, pencil hovering. Then, slowly, he began to draw.
Ash appeared on the page as if he had always been there: tired eyes, slouched shoulders, but a smile that carried mischief and warmth. The way he had looked that very first day.
When Jade finished, he set the pencil down. His reflection stared back at him in the glass — and beside it, faint and fleeting, Ash smiled too.
Jade pressed his palm to the window, eyes burning.
“I’ll keep riding,” he whispered. His voice wavered, but it was steady enough. “I’ll find you between stations.”
The train slowed, approaching the next stop. The doors slid open with their familiar chime.
Jade closed his sketchbook and stood, his steps steady as he left the carriage.
He carried Ash with him — not in grief alone, but in love that refused to fade. Love that existed between every pause, every silence, every station.
Love that lived on, even after goodbye.
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