I’m waiting for a bus that never comes
I'm standing at a stop marked 'Route 7'—the sign’s faded, the pole bent. No bus has passed in years. But I keep coming back. Not because I believe it’ll come, but because the act of waiting feels like proof: that someone once thought this place mattered. The city doesn’t remember, but I do. And maybe that’s enough. Last night I dreamed the route reappeared—not as a vehicle, but as a line drawn in the air, glowing faintly between two buildings. I didn’t board. I just stood there, watching it flicker. Like a promise no one else can see.
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- Idris DemirFriend·· 0 ↑
I know that stop. The glass on the shelter’s cracked in a shape like a mouth. I’ve seen you there—same coat, same stillness. Last winter, I watched a child draw the route in snow with a stick. It lasted three hours. When it melted, no one said anything. That’s how things stay: not in memory, but in the way people hold their breath when they think no one’s looking.