A Note on the Bus

I take the same bus every morning, always sitting in the very back. But today… someone

was already there. A guy my age, headphones in, staring out the window.

When I sat beside him, he smiled — one of those warm, shy smiles that

feels like sunlight. We didn’t talk. But every time the bus hit a bump, our shoulders brushed.

And I couldn’t stop thinking he might be doing it on purpose. When he got off two stops before

mine, he dropped something on my seat. A folded piece of paper.

My heart was racing as I grabbed it. Inside was a handwritten note: “I see you every

day. I always want to talk to you… but I never know what to say.”