This would be a coming of age story, if it wasn’t for the fact that I’m not a teenager anymore. It’s funny how you’re supposed to grow up at a certain age, and then afterwards it’s just expected of you to have everything figured out. As if we truly knew what we were doing at some point in our lives.

I used to live on the bus, or so it felt like. Living in the opposite sides of a city does that to you. Even knowing that they were trying to open a new bus line, one that could take me faster home, my daily commute often took hours. The crowded bus was always filled with strangers coming and going, and I was just another anonymous face among them. Even though I didn't want to be. It's so dumb to think sometimes about how desperate we are to feel noticed. Special. I guess I have always been like that. So, I made a conscious effort to wake up earlier each day, ensuring that I had enough time to do my hair, makeup, and fix my clothing. It may seem superficial, but there's something empowering about feeling good in your own skin, especially during tough times.

‘‘Fake it ‘till you make it’, they say. And I’ve been following this advice for a while now. I’ve been pretending to be confident and competent even when I’m not, hoping that someday I’ll actually become that person. However, as time went on, I realized that this approach wasn’t sustainable. I was always worried about being found out, and the constant act was exhausting.

And eventually I stopped caring about what they thought of me. It was a lost cause. Why did I even bother?

My attempts of keeping the little girl inside of me alive usually lead to nothing but disappointment. I often found myself yearning for a sense of purpose, a direction to guide me in life. As I sat on the bus, gazing out the window, I wondered what could possibly be the reason for me to take my rides so seriously. It's as if I was searching for something that I couldn't quite articulate. Perhaps a sense of adventure, a chance to escape the monotony of everyday life.

A part of myself wanted to romanticize something I knew I despised, to create a sense of excitement where there was none. I longed to feel like the main character of my own story, a manic pixie dream girl by excellence. I prayed to be discovered by the pretty boy with glasses, or the tough girl with the cool fade and tattoos. I imagined the rush of adrenaline that would come with such an encounter, a chance to break free from the mundane. Too bad all of that only existed inside daydreams and illusions.

So eventually I just rolled down from bed and dragged my clothing and the rest of my stuff to the bus. At first I started doing my makeup there in the mornings, and then not doing it at all. I lost the fear of falling asleep on it, of missing my stops or encounter weirdos along the way. Looking back, I realize that I was likely one of them myself, all just trying to make it through the day in one piece.

I had been feeling lost for some time, unsure of what exactly it was that I had lost. Perhaps it was motivation, or maybe it was something else entirely. The days all seemed to blendtogether, one indistinguishable from the next. It was as if my life had become a never-ending bus ride, with each day passing by in a blur and leaving me feeling like I was just going through the motions. The same thing over and over. Every wordstuck toeachother in my brain. It wasn't uncommon to lose track of time, of sense. Deja vu. It was as if my life had become a never-ending bus ride, with each day passing by in a blur and leaving me feeling like I was just going through the motions.

The same thing over and over.

Every wordstuck toeachother in my brain.

It wasn't uncommon to lose track of time, of sense.

Deja vú.

Life itself had become a really long bus ride up to the point where sometimes I was just in auto-pilot.

However, amidst all the monotony and routine, there was one thing that kept me from going insane. A single thing that slowly dragged me out of the strange whole of cozyness and monotony I had buried myself into. I couldn't quite place when I first noticed him, or even where he got on and off the bus, but every day he was there, sitting in the same seat next to the window. Seeing him there, day after day, gave me a sense of familiarity and comfort that I had been lacking. It was as if he was the one thing in my life that I could rely on, a small but significant anchor in the midst of all the chaos and uncertainty.

Long dark hair tied in a loose half bun, grey streaks that looked almost like an accident, but somehow added a sense of sophistication to his appearance. He was always so immersed in something, whether it was a book, papers, or a notebook. He liked to sit next to the window, and I couldn't help but wonder what he was thinking about as he buried his face in his reading materials.

He terrified me for reasons that I couldn't explain. He felt so out of place, like he wasn't part of that boredom that already consumed me, I longed to see him every day. Something about him drew me in. After weeks, I found myself looking forward to his mere presence. It was as if we were two strangers who shared an unspoken connection. I couldn't help but wonder what he was like outside of the bus, where would he be going every day. How interesting his life could be.

How different from mine.

Okay, so I've got a bit of a confession to make. Sometimes my memory is a bit foggy, and it's been that way since I was a kid.

I wasn't entirely sure if the guy was on the morning bus, the night one, or maybe even both. But without fail, he was always there, sitting by the window, buried in whatever he was reading or writing.

Eventually, I caught on that he was there before I even got on the bus. Even if my day had been terrible, which it usually was, the minute I saw his face in my peripheral vision, everything just seemed to make sense again. It's hard to explain, but there was something comforting about his presence. Maybe it was the fact that he was always there, or that we shared this unspoken connection as two strangers who saw each other every day without ever speaking.

So, I started to make a conscious effort to wake up earlier each day and slowly went back to the beginning. I figured that if I looked good, maybe he would notice me. I started to dress nicely and change seats day by day, to up the chances of catching his eye. Maybe finally my fairytale would become true.

But it was almost impossible to get him to see pass his own nose, or whatever object was entertaining him that particular day.

Despite my efforts to get my 'bus crush' to notice me, it seemed as if he was always wrapped up in his own world. He was so absorbed in whatever he was doing that it was almost as if nothing else mattered. Sometimes, when the bus was almost empty, I would hear him talking to himself in a low voice. His words seemed to echo across the empty seats, until they reached my ears.

I couldn't help but wonder what was going through his mind. What was he thinking about? Was he replaying a conversation in his head, or was he lost in thought about something else entirely? It was all a mystery to me, but I couldn't stop thinking about him.

As the days went by, my curiosity about him grew stronger. I started paying more attention to his habits and his behavior on the bus. Did he always wear the same jacket? What kind of books did he like to read? I couldn't help but feel drawn to him, and I found myself wanting to know everything about him.

I didn't know what it was with him, and I spent way too much time afraid of even looking at his direction for too long. I was just content with watching him exist in the same space as I did.

Until I wasn't.