Parable of the Bus Stop

You sit on an empty bench waiting for the next bus. It's your first time in this strange bus stop but you are not scared. You've been to various new bus stops too and they are nothing scary at all.

So you wait for the next bus. Like you always do. Like what you are expected to do. Like what has been with the previous bus stops. And then he arrives. He looks as confused as you were when you first rode the bus. He talks to you. Experienced as you are, you reply. You answer all his questions, you listen to his opinions, laugh at his jokes. Hours pass and still no bus arrives but you mind it not. You found a distraction in this boy.

You continue talking; opening your lives to each other. You talk until day gives way to night. Still, no bus arrives. Suddenly, you forget you're in a bus stop. You forget that you are, actually, waiting for the bus to arrive. You secretly wish that the bus will never come.

On the second day, he tells you what you've been thinking all night.

"I wish the bus won't arrive."

But you know better. You know the bus always arrives. Most of the times, late. At times, too early. But never that it won't arrive.

"The bus will arrive. Let's just enjoy each other's company while it's not yet here."

You tell him that matter-of-factly. Completely concealing the shaking of your voice and the fear that you will part soon.

"I think my bus will arrive soon. I don't want to leave you." He holds your hand as he says it.

You flinch. Not at his touch, never at his touch. You flinch at the thoughtfulness. And you get scared. You get scared whether he will still remember that line when his bus arrives. So you answer, as if in control.

"If so, I'll just wait here. Maybe you'll come back. But I hope you'd return before my bus arrives. Because once I board my bus, I'm not going back."

He holds your hand in what you think is his attempt to give assurance. You feel the warmth but it doesn't douse the fear.

On the third day, a bus arrives.

But it isn't the bus you're waiting for. He stands on the doorsteps, looking at you with sad eyes. One foot on the bus and the other on the ground. You try not to break down. You try to keep the strong facade on. You try to keep the unbreakable image you have long tried to master after numerous bus stop goodbyes.

"Go. I don't even like to be with you in the first place."

The words go out before you can make sense of what they were. But you decide it is for the better. Farewells are not painful. They just become so when one does not want to part. So you put your uncaring mask on; hoping he would do too. So you can go on and pretend that his good bye does not matter.

He boards the bus. Finally. Without offering you one last glance.

The bus speeds off, scattering dust on your feet. You sit down and cry. Your bus is still out of sight. And for once, you are sure that it will arrive later than expected. Because from all the traveling you've done, you have long learned that the bus only arrives when you are fully ready to leave the bus stop.