It’s just a 10-minute bus commute from my apartment to campus. And I’m patiently awaiting my arrival, but my eyes can’t help but wander towards the other passengers.
There’s a man in the back of the bus guarding his bike between his chopstick legs. He must have gotten on before me, since I would have surely noticed a silver bike with green handlebars. It’s a simple bike that belongs to a man whose beige jacket covers a weathered band tee. Where are you going? There aren’t many trails around here, only ones forgotten by the state park department. I can’t help but notice his wavy black hair that drapes beautifully off his head, like velvet curtains damaged by the heat wave. This all matches perfectly with his pointy goatee that turns upright like his smile. That’s reflected in the tinted window. Why are you smiling? Why can’t I have that smile? Why isn’t it directed towards me? Instead, it’s facing the window.
A waiting man stands, waiting for the light to change so he can cross the street. His brown eyes face the bus; I can only imagine his reflection in the glass. Do you see me inside the bus looking at you? Do you see the man with his bike? Surely not since that phone demands your attention, as you turtle yourself deeper into your rain jacket. I watch him slowly retreat into his shell. He stops midway to check his nails. Was there dirt under your nail, perhaps from your blue-collar job, that leaves your body aching? Or perhaps you’re grooming yourself for whoever lies on the other side of that phone? Anyway, I don’t think he can see me. Since that shiny sage green snapback might block his vision. I had a hat like that once, but it’s gone. It’s in some Atlanta apartment with someone who didn’t want to see me. Just like that, the man is gone. And the bus moves.
In front of that window sits a girl with an afro. She’s a slender girl wearing sunnies on a cloudy day. What are you hiding behind that poker face? Are you waiting for spring to fully take 2 shape? Or did you have a rough night last night? She amazes me in her baggy jeans. There’s a bold silver cross around her neck that lies perfectly on her baseball jersey. Is that a real jersey? I can’t tell. I’m not that into baseball, ever since my dad named me after a famous Washington baseball player. The player has a statue in Gallagher Way outside of Wrigley Field in Chicago, Illinois. I don’t have a statue, just a backpack. Which doesn’t have five stars on it, unlike the girl with the afro, whose backpack is between her feet. It reminds me of a penguin keeping its eggs warm.
Next to the girl with the afro sits another girl whose nose is pressed into the pages of a book. She’s only a couple of pages in. The book is hardback with a purple cover but has gold on the inside. It pops against her gray sweatshirt that says Hearst Castle, California. Did you go to California? Did you see all the sights that lay between San Diego and San Francisco? Or did you thrift that sweatshirt? Like the mugs I thrifted that say Rockport, Mass. I like thrifted clothes and objects; it makes me feel like I’m someone else. Someone cooler. Someone who doesn’t have a cheesy romance novel in his backpack. The bus hits a pothole in the road, and my gaze shifts to the girl right across from me.
She has dark circles under her eyes. There’s a sprinkling of freckles that dance across her face. I look up and see her big doe eyes. And right as I try to figure out her eye color, I’m distracted by the tears forming. And one by one, they cascade down her face.
Tell me, girl across the bus aisle, why did that tear roll down your cheek? I’m sorry if I’m intruding, but your sorrow intrigues me. Your eyes are overflowing as you choke down the tears. Do you need a hug? A friend? Or do you sometimes just feel like this? Did someone die? I had someone recently die. I cry anytime I drive now since it’s a moment alone. I hate being alone now. My music taste mixed with a feeling of running away always bakes a cake of tears. All the 3 memories and thoughts come flying back to me. I could cry right now if I think about how he was found, dead on the floor of his apartment. But I push it away, I would rather focus on others than myself. Which is why I’m watching this girl in a green hoodie, whose sleeves are now stained with mascara tears. I want a hug, I want a friend, I want to cry. But I can’t, I have class in 15 minutes, and I would rather be caught dead than have watery eyes in front of my teacher. Whose approval I care too much about.
With an abrupt stop of the bus, I know that I’m here. I start to gather my wandering thoughts as I wait on the tip of my plastic seat for the door to open. With the creaking sounds of the door, the bus lights up with the outside world. I look out and see a sea of strangers, too many to focus on. So I turn up my music. A constant sound to cover the bed of my biggest inner thought of “am I enough?”
Ryne Willever is an undergraduate student pursuing a degree in Media and Entertainment, along with a minor in Professional Writing. As a queer writer, Ryne often explores themes of everyday life in his work, whether that be haunting memories, dinners with friends, or queer love. He has a passion for film, design, and the visual arts in general.