•2 months ago•
1
•0
The bus shelter smelled like wet cardboard and someone's spilled energy drink. I'd been waiting eleven minutes—not ten, not fifteen—because I kept checking my phone, as if the number 42 would materialize faster if I refreshed the transit app one more time. A woman beside me was reading a paperback with a creased spine, the kind of damage that comes from being loved too hard. I caught a glimpse of the title:
The Hands We Hold
. She turned a page without looking up, and I wondered what scene she was living in while I was stuck in mine.