The Last Bus
The sky was the same, yet different somehow — like lukewarm tea in different times: a winter night or a rainy day.
A young man stood by the bus stop, holding a paper bag that smelled faintly of the unforgettable scent of jasmine. Inside it were two different things that shared the same space — a half-eaten sandwich and a letter he had opened but didn't read.
His other hand reached for his phone again.
No messages...,Nothing.
Not that he expected any.
The bus stop was lonely and stressful. Then there was also an old man — counting coins in his pale hands for a long time — and a stray dog dozing under the bench without a care.
The streetlight above flickered, as if deciding whether this mundane evening deserved to be illuminated.
The letter was from someone he once knew. He had received it three days ago, folded neatly, adorned with sharp letters — the kind of handwriting that could strike your heart, like once before.
He hadn't read the letter yet, not because he couldn't, but because he already guessed what it said. Some things are better left blank.
The old man finally boarded a bus, flashing an apologetic smile at the veteran conductor he knew. The bus disappeared into the nightly glow of the evening sun. The dog yawned, stretched, and wandered away to places only it knew.
Then he was alone again — in the cold yet strangely warm evening.The letter crinkled under his fingers, resisting being unfolded.He sat on the bench, and for a moment, he could hear her voice again.
A bus came — the last one of the day.
The weary driver looked at him through the window.
He looked down at the paper bag in his hands. For a moment, he thought of leaving it there and walking home.
But then he stood, boarded the bus, clutching the bag, and sat by the window — staring at the ordinary bench.
The letter remained a mystery, resting beside the half-eaten sandwich.
New bus stops and benches passed by — brightly lit shops, glowing streets, strange people on the sidewalks, all laughing into the wind.
When the bus turned near the bridge, the letter was finally opened. It was short — too short for him to read twice.
He smiled, his calm eyes looking out of the window without change. The city lights blurred like tears he refused to acknowledge — like the river that tore apart the letter in its currents.
He whispered something to himself, but the sound was swallowed by the hum of the moving bus.
The paper bag had already fallen, the sandwich spilled, its contents scattered — still, it was not an unimaginable loss.