Bus Tickets

The wind swept through the evening, brushing against his face and feet as fine snow scattered itself into the air. The bus stop sat at the edge of a large roundabout, where roads branched off in different directions. It was quiet. Only a few people passed by, wrapped in dark winter jackets, their expressions distant, as though their thoughts belonged somewhere else entirely.

He had stood at this stop many times before. It carried him to his lectures at the central hall, to the gym, and to Linden. The buses always arrived slowly and left just as quickly. Their green paint, dulled beneath the snow, stirred a quiet sense of nostalgia in him.

Tonight, he was on his way to the gym, his black bag slung over his shoulder. In his mind, he was already lifting, already moving through the routine. He hoped his light jacket would be enough. The cold pressed more sharply against his skin than usual, sending small shivers through him. He wondered if he might get sick.

Like the others around him, he found himself drifting. Watching people pass became another form of distance, a silent agreement that to endure the present, one had to be somewhere else. The mind wandered either backward or forward. That winter, his past came to him in fragments. A laugh. A quarrel. A face. Some memories were incomplete, appearing without warning. Others remained vivid, not for their importance, but for their pain, and occasionally, their joy.

The future, on the other hand, felt faint. It struggled to take shape, to call out from its uncertainty. He understood the weight of both, and in that quiet moment at the bus stop, he recognized something simple: he was no different from anyone else there.

The thought seemed to stretch on, as if it had lasted hours, though in truth it was only seconds. Another green bus approached, slower than the others, snow gathering thickly along its frame. Most of its windows were obscured, except for one near the rear.

There was a face.

She was fully present, her eyes fixed on him. They were blue, steady, and intentional. The color softened into light brown skin, into lips that seemed capable of saying something unforgettable. Her reddish-brown hair fell in loose waves around her neck.

They held each other’s gaze.

Then she smiled.

His gym bag slipped from his shoulder and fell to the ground.

The smile felt familiar, almost impossibly so, yet he knew he had never seen her before. She lifted a hand and brushed her hair back, revealing dimples that deepened the expression, making it warmer, closer.

He raised his hand and waved. She waved back.

In that instant, nothing else mattered. Not the route, not the destination. He only knew he had to be on that bus, wherever it was going.

He bent to pick up his bag, slinging it back over his shoulder. When he looked up again, her smile had begun to fade. It did not disappear all at once, but grew smaller, more distant, as though it were slipping into memory even as he watched it.

Then it struck him.

The bus had already begun to move.

It gathered speed, pulling away from the stop, carrying her with it.