The bus driver opened the door remotely.
"Hurry up."
I exhaled and crushed the cigarette under my shoe. The smoke died too fast—tragic, really. A perfectly good cigarette, gone. Tears almost followed. Almost.
The tall guy beside me did the same. Quieter. More composed.
We boarded together.
I immediately wished I'd walked.
Bodies pressed together like livestock. Sweat, cheap perfume, breath layered over breath. The bus smelled like exhaustion and neglect. After shoving, apologizing, and being stepped on, we found two seats barely worth calling seats.
Once we sat, I spoke.
"You never told me your name."
He smiled and offered his hand.
"I'm Aizak. Nice to meet you, Well."
I shook it. His palm was rough. Strong. The kind of hand that didn't hesitate.
"Nice to meet you too… Aizak."
Silence settled—awkward and heavy.
Then he tilted his head.
"You never gave me my lighter back."
My stomach dropped.
I wanted the floor to open and swallow me whole. I dug through my pockets, hands shaking, heart racing. When I found it, I noticed the design—classic black, sleek, expensive. Worth more than my weekly allowance. Honestly, everything was worth more than my weekly allowance.
I handed it back.
"Why is your hand shaking?" he asked, smiling wider.
Fuck.
"It's the smell," I lied. "No air. It's suffocating."
"I'm sorry. I wasn't paying attention."
He took the lighter gently.
"It's nothing to apologize for, kid."
Kid?
"Aren't we the same age?" I snapped.
"I'm twenty. Second year of college," he said easily.
"And you're probably seventeen."
"How did you—?" I stared. "Are you some kind of angel?"
He laughed. Soft. Genuine.
"You look like I did back then. Even the attitude. It's like talking to myself."
We didn't look alike at all.
I was pale. Fragile. Pitch-black eyes. Blond, wavy hair.
He was darker. Sharper. Confident. Clean.
Before I could ask more, two girls pushed past us, dragging the bus driver's attention with them.
He barked loudly, enjoying himself.
"You two need to learn some manners! Two fine young ladies standing while you sit there chatting like a high-school couple. Shame on you!"
The girls giggled behind him. Victorious.
Something burned inside my mouth. I bit my lip until I tasted blood.
I hated them.
I hated him.
My thoughts went somewhere ugly—violent, humiliating fantasies crawling out of places I hated admitting existed.
I stayed seated.
The man was twice my size. Older. Built like a bear.
I was about to stand when Aizak's hand pressed against my thigh.
"Sit," he murmured.
Then he raised his voice.
"You're the one with no manners, you dumb prick. We're not moving."
My heart slammed.
The driver started shouting. People stared like we were animals.
"If you don't give up your seats," he snapped, "you're getting off this bus."
Aizak's fist clenched. For a moment, I thought he'd swing.
I leaned closer.
"Let it go," I whispered. "We'll miss our stops. You're late too, right?"
He exhaled. Then stood.
I followed.
The girls dropped into our seats immediately, waving mockingly.
We moved to the side of the bus, crushed again. The smell worsened.
"I'm sorry," Aizak said quietly. "I made a scene."
I laughed.
"You look cute when you're angry."
He smiled despite himself.
At the next stop, half the passengers got off. Thirteen more climbed in.
Among them—a familiar face.
Zombie.
A local celebrity rapper. Drunk. Bald. Bloated with ego. Famous for being rotten. People whispered, filmed, worshiped decay.
A pregnant woman approached the last free seat.
Zombie dropped into it first.
"Could you give me the seat?" she asked softly.
He smirked.
"Trust me," he laughed. "I'm more tired than you."
She walked away, disgust carved into her face.
Aizak chuckled.
"I love this guy. He's hilarious."
I smiled automatically.
Then I noticed her.
A girl around my age, wearing a niqab. All black. Face hidden except for her eyes. A man followed her—soft-voiced, feminine, eyes eating her alive. His hands moved shamelessly.
She knew.
She stayed silent.
Honor is heavy when you're alone.
No one noticed. Everyone stared at Zombie instead.
When the whispers grew loud, Zombie scowled, pulled a bottle from his jacket, and drank it dry.
Aizak stared at him strangely.
"Why would someone like him ride a bus like this?" he asked.
"Drinking openly, here of all places."
"Maybe it's a message," I muttered.
He heard me.
"What kind of message?"
"He's honest in a world full of lies," I said quietly.
"Other celebrities hide their lowest moments. He doesn't."
Aizak smiled—cracked, uncertain.
Zombie tossed the bottle, reached for a cigarette. No lighter.
"Does anyone have a lighter?" he growled.
A white-haired man shouted at him.
"You can't smoke here! Are you insane?"
Zombie ignored him.
Aizak stepped forward and handed over the lighter.
Zombie smiled.
"Thanks, kid."
The man kept screaming.
Aizak waved.
"Well," he said, "Well, come smoke with us."
Cameras turned. Eyes followed.
Something snapped inside me.
I didn't see the crowd—only Aizak's smile.
I laughed and pushed through bodies.
"I'm free," I whispered.
We smoked.
The man spat on the floor.
"You're a disgrace."
We laughed like lunatics.
Then the girl screamed.
She kicked the man between the legs, ripped off her niqab, cursed him loudly.
The bus screeched to a stop.
Chaos exploded.
The driver stormed toward us.
"You three caused this?" he shouted, pointing at Zombie.
Zombie exhaled smoke.
"Get your finger out of my face."
The driver laughed.
"What will you do, rapper—"
Zombie punched him.
Everything broke after that.
People ran. Filmed. Fought.
We watched, laughing, smoking.
Sirens.
We ran.
Different paths. No goodbyes.
But I knew—
We'd meet again.