To the man I met every day on the bus.

We’ve been taking the same bus almost every day for the last few months. And I caught you staring at me. But you also caught me staring at me. I like to think you’re searching my eyes every time you get on the bus. 
Or maybe our eyes search each other. 
We have not said a word to one another. Maybe neither of us has that much courage. Or maybe we think it would be either. You always surrounded by your mates, me always surrounded by my books.But I like to think your name is Rob. You look like a Rob to me. A pretty handsome Rob.
But if we ever got to talk to each other, let me give you a hint on how the future would look like.
When we get over ourselves and finally say hello, you would ask me out on a date. Or maybe just a coffee. It’s too soon for dinner, you don’t want to scare me out.
We’d go to this little hidden cafe, where they play jazz in the afternoons and has fresh flowers on each table. You’d chose the corner table, separate from all the other tables in there. I’d arrive 5 minutes later, just before the fashionably late time would go out.
I’d wear my yellow dress and flowers in my hair. You’d say I look rather dashing.
We would talk for hours. I’d get you to talk about your mum, your little brother that looks up to you. Your first love and your first hurt. Your old cat and the summer you spent with your gran in Cumbria.
You’d say some really bad jokes just because you don’t want any awkward silences on this date! I’d laugh my silly laugh, and everyone will look our way.
And with uttermost sincerity, you’d say you can listen to my laugh every day for the rest of your life.
And then a silence would come. But not the awkward type. The understanding one. The silence that speaks a thousand words without saying any.
You’d ask for my iPod, because you believe the music one listens defines us.
You’d look into my eyes after hours and hours of talking and understand that this right here, what we got is special. It’s real.
And we’d part ways knowing that we’ll see each other on the bus next day. But not like strangers. Like friends now. Like future partners in crime. For better or for worse.

And this right here, it’s for you, my dear bus partner:

About the author


Sunset-chasing since the '90s
Changing the mental health conversation
Avid reader and writer. This is my little space where I share with the world my feelings and experiences.

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