Yesterday, I saw her standing near the rear door. Among people entering and exiting the cramped bus, you were special. Not because the red coat you wore or some orange bunny keychain you hung on your bags.
You held tears for the entire ride. You’ve tried to hide all those emotion with a red and blue shade around your face. But you couldn’t hide the wrinkles around your forehead, or the gasp you held once in a while.
We got off on the same buss stop. It started to rain and you didn’t bring any umbrella. I handed you mine, patted your shoulder, and said, “Everything is going to get better.”
We might not meet again. Name, reasons, decisions, stories. I’ll never know yours, and you’ll never know mine.