Jia should have been offended. Instead, she felt seen in a way that terrified and thrilled her. She thought of the stage lights, the hollow roar of applause, the way her body belonged to everyone and no one. “Something like that,” she whispered.
The train compartment smelled of rust, stale coffee, and the particular loneliness of a border crossing at dusk. Jia Lissa pressed her forehead against the cold glass, watching the industrial outskirts of the last city blur into skeletal trees. Outside, the map was ending. Inside, she was just beginning.
The train plunged into a tunnel. For five heartbeats, there was only darkness and the syncopated click of wheels. When the light returned, Vixen had moved closer—not physically, but in the way the air between them had thickened, become a thing with weight.
When the brakes sighed and the doors opened onto the unfamiliar platform, they stepped off together. Two women travelling alone. Carrying different ghosts. Headed, for one night, in the same direction. Vixen - Jia Lissa - Travelling Alone
And for the first time all journey, Jia Lissa wasn’t hiding. She was arriving.
“You’re travelling alone,” Vixen said. It wasn’t a question.
She’d told herself this trip was about “finding material.” A dancer’s sabbatical. But the truth was simpler and sharper: she needed to be a stranger. In Prague, in Budapest, in the tiny, unpronounceable town whose name she’d booked on a whim, no one knew her stage name. No one expected the arch of her back or the practiced softness of her gaze. Here, she was just a girl with a heavy suitcase and a passport full of empty pages. Jia should have been offended
Jia’s first instinct was to lie, to perform the polite shield every woman learns to carry. But the rhythm of the tracks had loosened something in her chest. “Is it that obvious?”
“I travel alone too,” Vixen said, her voice lower now, meant only for Jia. “Not because I have no one. Because I refuse to let anyone edit my story.”
A flush crept up Jia’s neck. She righted the novel—some pretentious thing she’d bought at a station kiosk—and set it aside. “Maybe I like watching the world go backwards.” “Something like that,” she whispered
Vixen didn’t ask to sit. She simply folded herself into the opposite seat like she’d always been there—all sharp angles, quiet confidence, and the faint scent of amber and cigarette smoke. Her coat was too elegant for a regional train, her boots too practical for a woman who moved like liquid shadow.
She didn’t answer with words. She let her hand rest on the seat between them, palm up, an offering. Vixen’s fingers intertwined with hers—cool, deliberate, asking for nothing more than the next station.
Vixen reached across the narrow gap and gently turned Jia’s face back toward the darkening landscape. “That’s the wrong question,” she murmured. “The right one is: what’s our story for tonight? ”
“It’s the way you hold your book,” Vixen replied, nodding at the untouched paperback in Jia’s lap. “Upside down for the last three stops. You’re not reading. You’re hiding.”