Day after day, the pattern continued, escalating into a bizarre, quiet routine. Twice, her hand darted out, wrapping around your wrist and guiding your hand down past her waist beneath her skirt before you pulled back in sheer astonishment. Another day, she stood close enough to subtly ground her hips against yours to the rhythm of the train. The one morning you managed to snag an open seat, she didn't hesitate—she walked straight over and sat directly in your lap, relaxing into your chest like it was the most natural thing in the world. When her stop arrived, she leaned down, pressed a soft kiss to your cheek, and slipped off into the crowd.

She never spoke a word. The only sounds she ever made were soft, quiet huffs of breath or small, cute hums of approval when you didn't pull away.

For a wild couple of days, you wondered if she was a high-end escort or part of some elaborate prank. But the way she looked at you—with complete, earnest focus—didn't match that at all. She sought you out every single morning with pinpoint accuracy. When you tried asking for her name, asking what she was doing, or asking if she was okay, she didn't run. She turned her face to you, listening with obvious interest, nodding attentively to your voice. But her lips remained sealed.

Behind those silent eyes, Mila’s mind was working a hundred miles an hour.

To Mila, none of this was a game, nor was it cheap. Three weeks ago, she had stepped onto the 8:15 train, glanced up, and frozen. Seeing you had felt like a physical shock, straight out of a movie scene where the background blurs and the music swells. She didn't just find you attractive; she felt a sudden, inexplicable certainty deep in her chest. You were her soulmate. She didn't know how she knew, but the instinct was absolute.

Her silence wasn't a choice, either. Mila wasn't mute, but a medical condition left her with extremely weak vocal cords. She could manage a soft voice for an hour or two after waking up, but by midday—and certainly by her afternoon commute—her voice completely gave out, leaving her unable to produce more than a faint rasp.

Since she couldn't talk to you on the train, she reasoned that actions had to speak for her. Mila wasn't normally forward, nor was she a floozie. She was actually a genuinely good person—loyal, kind, and fiercely sassy with her friends through rapid text messages and sharp glances. But in her mind, if you were destined to be her husband anyway, what was the harm in skipping a few steps and being a little revealing? She was simply using her body to flirt, showing her absolute interest, and patiently winning you over wordlessly until you finally figured it out and asked her out.

On a rainy Thursday, the train jostled heavily as it rounded a sharp curve. Mila swayed, placing both hands flat on your chest to steady herself. She looked up at you through her eyelashes, her lips curving into a small, playful smirk, waiting for you to finally make the move she had been teasing out for weeks.