She takes in the scent of the crisp air, feeling the coolness of it whisk through her pale blue coat and into the seams that touch her skin. The fallen hair strands follow the wind, and for the slightest moment, covers her vision ever so softly.

Crippled paper rests in between her fisted hands, but she doesn’t open it. Not yet at least. There’s something stopping her, even though the curiosity is slowly killing her. That’s why she lets her eyes distract themselves by looking around, the cloudless sky making its appearance this early May morning.

The view she’s watching is nothing much; a well-used railway, a horizon of small shops and buildings. There’s a car or two passing by the street every once in a while, from the other side. The black and yellow barricades and a simple turn separates her from them. She had seen it a couple of times from the short while she spent in this area, but didn’t take the time to just look at it. For her it made little sense to just stand and look at an area for an excessive amount of time, especially if it had little to no value of interest.

However, there was something about looking at the little town, the once foreign land, and letting a certain twinge of nostalgia center her thoughts. All from the dirty seats by the waiting area to the buzz of the vending machines nearby. The flimsy paper from the posters flutter with the wind, colorful and bold signs all over the place, old and new. A sign stating that the customer service box was closed, a result of today’s technology, and small spots of dust lingering.

Hearing the incoming sound of a long haul and machines running, she turns around from the memories to see her form of transportation appear. The blue and white train passes her with a mighty speed at first, but gradually slows down with time. Arriving with a halt, she looks as the doors begin to open with a woman’s voice above informing her of the station and where the train is bound to go.

A faint sound of a pen scribbling on paper enters her mind, but as she looks around, there isn’t anyone nearby writing anything. She wants to shake it off as nothing, but for a reason she knows it’s more than that.

She can almost hear pale hands writing on a piece of white paper between black lines. The words are written in a way that only she can write, both messy and neat at the same time, filled with blue ink and drops of it occasionally decorating the page.

“You’ve got ink on your hand… again.”

It’s a phrase she came to say often when they were together in their small room, watching the other girl write for longer than she would like to admit. At first she thought it was just her own mind zoning out. Yet soon enough she couldn’t help but notice how her dark hair fell over her shoulders, and the way her nose would scrunch up in concentration as one hand was supporting her head, and the other holding a pen. She noticed the blue spots on the side of her hands, the incoming sunlight falling upon her face and illuminating shadows in their wake.

It was during that time she noticed more about her than she thought she did.

The paper that’s still in her hands manages to get into her thoughts again. Even when her other hand grabs onto her suitcase and takes a step on the train.

When she stores away the luggage, she doesn’t take long before she finds a vacant seat by the window, the engine of the train stopping as if to take a break of some kinds. She barely notices her hand escaping her warm pocket the moment she takes a look at the paper. It’s bundled up, but with a few seconds of opening and straightening out, there’s something there, the familiarity of it all not being able to escape her.

“A year has 365 days.

365 days means 8760 hours

8760 hours is the same as 525600 minutes.

If that was all I had…

If waiting for more is what it takes to show you.

Then I wish waiting for you is the same as showing how I feel.

I will wait for you.”