Chapter One: The Sound That Found Her

The city didn’t sleep, but sometimes, Evelyn wished it would whisper.

New York smelled like rain. Not a storm. Not thunder. Just the kind of soft drizzle that slicked the sidewalks and turned streetlights into watercolor. The pavement shimmered beneath her boots, casting golden puddles of city light. The air was heavy and hushed, like the sky was holding its breath.

She pulled her sweater tighter around her shoulders as she descended the subway steps, the dampness settling into her skin. It had been one of those long, lingering days—the kind that felt stretched thin between responsibilities and the quiet ache of wanting to feel something again.

She was exhausted.

Eight hours at the bookstore meant shelving hardcovers, smiling at impatient customers, and faking small talk she was too tired to mean. Her rust-colored sweater still smelled like lavender and old paper. Her body ached in all the usual places, but it was something deeper that weighed on her most—the part of her that hadn’t written in weeks.

Writing had always been her oxygen. Her anchor. The only thing that reminded her who she was when everything else got loud.

But lately, the words had gone quiet.

Tonight she needed to write. Even just one sentence.

She stepped into the subway just before the doors closed and slid into the middle of the back bench. Her tote bag slumped against her leg. The journal in her lap flipped open easily, as if the pages had been waiting for her. She placed her pen gently between her fingers.

The car was crowded at first. Warm. Loud. Too many elbows, too many lives pressed into one small space.

So she sat. Still. Quiet. Waiting for the world to make room for her again.

Station by station, the crowd began to thin. The car emptied.

And that was when he stepped in.

He entered at the next stop. Not in a rush, but with a kind of quiet urgency that suggested he was running late. Dark jeans. A worn black t-shirt. Soft curls slightly damp with summer air framed his face, brushing just above his brows and curling slightly at the nape of his neck. His guitar case hung from his shoulder like an extension of him.

He didn’t see her at first.

He found a place near the center of the subway, just a few feet away from her. One hand on the pole. The other adjusting the strap across his chest. He glanced down at his phone, checking the time.

Late. Not by much. But enough to make him anxious.

Then he looked up.

And saw her.

Everything in him went still.

She sat there, tucked into the bench like a poem waiting to be read. A plum beret framed her face, her honey blonde hair cascading over one shoulder in soft waves. She wore a long, moody wine-colored skirt, her legs crossed at the ankle, and a pen gently poised over a blank page.

Her eyes were downcast, but even from where he stood, Joe could feel the quiet presence of her. Her grace. Her stillness. Her tiredness that didn’t take anything away from her beauty—only deepened it.

She looked like she had lived things. Felt things. And somehow, she was still soft.

Joe stared longer than he meant to. His eyes, wide and warm with flecks of hazel and mossy green, softened as he took her in. They were the kind of eyes that held stories—and right now, every story led to her.

He wasn’t used to feeling like this.

He felt nervous. A little off-balance. She was beautiful—but it wasn’t just that.

Joe felt very attracted but unsure as to why. Just suddenly and instant soul connection and attraction towards her beauty, grace and poetic energy.

That was what made Joe love New York.

The subway swayed. Lights above flickered once. The city blurred behind them, just flashes of station tile and shadow.

But she was clear.

Joe looked away only once, glancing down at his phone. He tapped it absently. Checked the time. Let the screen fade to black.

He was late. Not terribly, but enough to matter. Still, something in him didn’t want to move. He could barely tear his gaze away from her. Every few seconds, he’d glance back. Like he was trying to memorize her in small pieces so it wouldn’t overwhelm him all at once.

She had that kind of presence.

Beautiful, yes. But more than that. Rare.

She looked like someone who still believed in love stories, even if she’d been hurt by one.

And Joe—he wasn’t sure he believed anymore. Not really. Not since everything fell apart. Not since the girl before, the one who made him feel small. He’d been drifting lately, performing at night, keeping his head down, keeping his heart locked tight.

But right now, something in him was coming undone.

And it wasn’t loud. It wasn’t cinematic.

It was quietly bursting at the seams.

Then she looked up again.

Their eyes met.

That second, longer glance that shook the part of him that hadn’t felt anything in months.

She had honey hazel eyes—soft, wide, and full of unspoken things. They stopped him where he stood.

He swallowed hard and looked away.

Checked the time again.

One more stop.

One stop before hers.

He shifted the guitar strap across his chest and turned toward the doors as the subway slowed to a crawl. His pulse picked up, but he didn’t know if it was from the music or from her.

Then he felt it.

He turned—and there she was.

She had stood up.

And now she was standing exactly where he had been. Right there in front of the door, hands wrapped lightly around the same pole. Looking at him through the glass, just a few feet away. Her honey blonde hair had shifted with the movement, catching the light like it was glowing.

She had moved.

Just to see him one more time.

Her stop was next. She could have followed him.

She almost did.

He could feel it in the way she looked at him.

Their eyes met again.

And then… they both smiled.

Soft. Almost shy. Like they didn’t know why they were smiling, only that it would’ve felt wrong not to. There was something unspoken in it. Something grateful. Something unfinished.

He took one step back, almost toward her. Almost.

But the doors slid shut.

And she stayed.

He turned away. Then, almost angry at himself, he turned back again.

Not to be polite.

Just to see her.

And when he did, he was surprised.

She was still watching him.

And in her expression, he saw it.

That tiny, beautiful truth.

She had followed him. Maybe not in steps. But in energy. In choice. In instinct.

His stop disappeared behind him.

Her heart did something wild inside her chest.