Between Leaving and Arriving

Then one evening the bus was late, and I just... watched. The fog on the window. A stranger laughing quietly at something on her phone. The sky doing that slow amber thing it does before it lets go of the day.

Somewhere between leaving and arriving, there is a whole life happening. Not the life we plan. The one that happens in the seams — at the bus stop, in the window seat, in the four minutes between transfers.

Now I keep the window seat. I let the podcast wait. Fare signs, tired shoes, the hum of the engine — it's all part of a day I'll never get again.

And then... you just keep going. But slower now. On purpose.