[His POV]
Some days don't start bad, they just wear you down in pieces.
First, the espresso machine spits steam the wrong way. Then a customer complains about the foam ratio. Then Mira accidentally double-charges someone and I get to play mediator while trying to remember if I cleaned table seven. It's not catastrophic. Just… slow erosion. Like a tide pulling your patience out to sea.
By the end of the shift, I'm walking to the bus stop with one headphone in, jacket unzipped, the night air licking at my collarbone. I'm too tired to think about anything but getting home and not burning the instant ramen again.
The bus is already there.
Door open like it's been waiting for me.
I swipe my card without really looking and move down the aisle, ready to collapse into the first empty seat—
—and then I see her.
Back row. Left side. The same spot where we first talked.
She's tucked into the corner, scarf looped loosely around her neck, one hand resting on the side of her face, elbow propped on the window ledge like she's holding up the whole sky with her cheekbone. Her other hand cradles a paperback, but her thumb isn't turning the page.
She's not reading. Just… sitting. Like I was on my worst days.
I walk toward her slowly, like I might spook the moment if I move too fast.
She looks up as I approach.
Tired eyes. A ghost of a smile. Not polite, not surprised—just there, like she expected me eventually.
"Rough day?" she asks, voice low enough to match the bus hum.
"You could say that," I murmur, sliding into the seat beside her.
Not too close. Just enough that our knees could bump if the bus hits a turn wrong.
She tucks the book into her bag.
We don't say anything for a while.
It's a comfortable kind of silence—the kind that happens when you're both too tired to talk but not too tired to want company.
The streetlights outside flick past like thoughts. Golden. Fuzzy around the edges. The bus is warm, maybe too warm, and it makes my eyes want to close.
She shifts slightly, rests both hands on her bag now, fingers tapping out a pattern I recognize but can't place.
"You're always reading," I say, voice barely above a whisper.
She shrugs. "Helps quiet the noise."
"Yeah," I say. "Me too."
A beat passes.
"I used to write on the bus," I admit. "Not full scenes, just… fragments. Dialogue. Random metaphors. Sometimes just questions I didn't know how to ask out loud."
She doesn't respond right away.
Then: "Do you still?"
I glance down at my hands. "Sometimes. Depends on the day."
"And today?"
I meet her eyes.
"No words today."
She nods like she understands exactly what kind of day that is.
The bus rattles slightly as we hit a pothole. Our arms brush. Neither of us pulls away.
She reaches into her coat pocket and pulls out a small notebook—weathered, corners bent, cover peeling like old bark. She offers it to me without a word.
I look at her, unsure.
"Just read the top page," she says.
So I do.
It's only a few lines. A paragraph, maybe.
But it's the kind of writing that makes your chest tighten because it feels like it knows something about you you haven't told anyone yet.
I read it twice.
Then a third time.
I hand it back gently.
"That's good," I say.
She nods, sliding it back into her pocket like it was never there.
I want to ask if she wrote it.
But something stops me.
Maybe I don't want to break whatever this is with a question that feels too sharp.
Instead, I say: "You ever feel like the bus is the only place where things slow down enough to feel real?"
She exhales softly. "All the time."
Another pause.
Longer now.
The driver changes the radio station. A soft jazz instrumental crackles through the speakers.
I lean my head back against the window and close my eyes for a second.
I can still feel her presence beside me—not heavy, not invasive. Just there. Like a book on the nightstand you haven't opened yet, but know you'll reach for soon.
"You ever read something that made you stop reading altogether?" she asks suddenly.
Her voice breaks the quiet like a pebble dropped in still water.
I open my eyes.
"Yeah," I say. "Chapter 27. A single paragraph. I couldn't pick up another book for a week."
She smiles faintly. "That's how you know it's real."
"What about you?"
She takes a moment to answer.
"There was this story," she begins. "Didn't think much of it at first. The beginning was messy, like the author didn't know what they were doing. But there was one line in the middle—about regret being a hallway with no doors—and I just… closed the tab. Sat in silence for an hour."
I blink. "That sounds like something I'd write."
She laughs under her breath. "Yeah. Maybe that's why I remembered it."
We reach a stop and a few passengers shuffle out. The bus feels emptier now. Like we're the only ones left awake in the world.
I glance sideways.
She's staring out the window again.
But her reflection's staring back at me.
She catches me looking.
This time, she doesn't look away.
Just says, softly: "Want to hear something embarrassing?"
"Always."
She folds her hands neatly on her lap.
"I once left a comment on a story at three in the morning and deleted it ten minutes later because it felt too personal."
"What did it say?"
"That I felt seen."
My throat tightens unexpectedly.
I want to ask if it was my story.
But again—I don't.
Because if it wasn't, I don't want to be disappointed.
And if it was… I don't want to ruin the moment.
The bus announces our stop with a mechanical voice and a flickering screen.
She stands, pulling her scarf back around her neck.
I follow her off the bus, footsteps light on the pavement.
For a moment, we just stand under the streetlight. Not in a rush. Not saying goodbye.
"Same time tomorrow?" I ask.
"Unless the world ends," she echoes.
And then she walks ahead, hands in her coat pockets, the night swallowing her up slow like the end of a chapter that lingers a little too long in your chest.