Chapter 7: The Bus Stop Between Then and Now
1057 Words
Saturday arrived quietly, without any promise of change. Aarav woke up early, the dull grey light of morning slipping through the curtains of his small apartment. His head felt lighter today. The constant ache that usually sat behind his temples was strangely calm. He didn’t try to analyze it, but somewhere deep down, he knew why. Talking to Mira had done something to him. Something subtle, but real.
He got ready for work, pulling on his jacket and checking his camera before leaving. Being a crime scene photographer wasn’t a job that allowed emotions, yet Aarav carried his like an invisible shadow. By the time he reached the site, the place was already sealed off. Yellow tape fluttered weakly in the wind, rainwater pooling near the pavement.
The murder scene was brutal. A body covered with a white sheet, forensic officers moving around with practiced detachment. Aarav lifted his camera and did what he always did—framed reality through a lens so he wouldn’t have to feel it directly. Click after click. Evidence. Blood patterns. Broken glass.
Normally, this was where his headache would worsen, but today, it didn’t. His mind drifted, just for a moment, to Mira. The way she listened. The calm in her voice. The softness that felt unfamiliar but comforting. He shook his head and focused back on work, finishing the shoot before dusk.
On the other side of the city, Mira’s Saturday passed inside hospital walls. As a trauma therapist, she spent her day listening to stories heavy with pain—stories that echoed too closely with her own past. She guided her clients gently, offering words she herself struggled to believe at times.
Yet today, between sessions, her thoughts betrayed her professionalism. Aarav’s face appeared again and again. His awkward honesty. The way he looked at her as if she was something fragile but strong at the same time. When her last session ended, she checked the time and decided to head home early.
Outside, the sky had darkened. Rain began to fall, slow at first, then heavier, soaking the streets and blurring city lights. Mira wrapped her shawl tighter and walked toward the bus stop near the main road.
At the same moment, Aarav stood at that very bus stop, rain tapping against his umbrella. His jacket was damp, camera bag slung over his shoulder. He stared at the road absentmindedly—until he saw her.
Mira.
She stood a few steps away, clearly unprepared for the sudden cold. Her hands were tucked into her sleeves, shoulders slightly hunched. Before Aarav could think, her name escaped his lips.
“Mira.”
She turned around slowly. For a second, surprise filled her eyes, then something warmer followed.
“Aarav?”
Rain fell between them like a curtain. Neither of them moved at first.
“You’re cold,” Aarav said suddenly, noticing the slight tremble in her hands. Without waiting for her response, he removed his coat and stepped closer, holding it out to her. “Please. Take this.”
Mira shook her head immediately. “No, Aarav, you’ll—”
“I’ll be fine,” he interrupted gently, opening his umbrella wider. “And anyway… this way, we’ll meet again.”
She looked at him, words stuck somewhere between her heart and lips. Slowly, she accepted the coat, wrapping it around herself. It smelled faintly of rain and something familiar she couldn’t name.
“Thank you,” she said softly.
Aarav smiled. “Do you come to this bus stop every day?”
“Not every day,” Mira replied. “Only when I want to get home quickly. Sometimes I walk… it helps me think.”
He nodded. “I get that. My job doesn’t give me much space to think. Or maybe it gives me too much.”
She glanced at him. “Do you like your job?”
He thought for a moment. “I don’t know if ‘like’ is the right word. It’s… necessary. Someone has to see the truth, even when it’s ugly.”
Mira smiled faintly. “That’s brave, in its own way.”
Rain grew heavier, drumming against the shelter. They spoke about small things—the weather, how the city felt different in the rain, how Saturdays felt strangely heavier than weekdays. Nothing too personal, yet every word carried meaning.
Mira’s bus arrived first. She hesitated before stepping in, holding his coat closer.
“I’ll return this,” she said.
Aarav met her eyes. “I know.”
The bus doors closed, and she took a seat by the window. As it pulled away, she looked back. Aarav stood there, rain soaking his sleeves, watching until the bus disappeared into the traffic.
A few minutes later, his own bus arrived. He boarded quietly and leaned back, Mira’s image refusing to leave his mind. A strange realization settled in his chest—he liked her. More than he expected. More than he was ready for.
“I should’ve asked for her number,” he muttered to himself.
When he reached his apartment, the silence felt louder than usual. He lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling, imagining asking Mira out, imagining her smile, imagining a future he hadn’t allowed himself to want before. Eventually, sleep claimed him with her name still echoing in his thoughts.
Mira reached her apartment around the same time. She placed Aarav’s coat carefully on her bed, setting the umbrella beside it. She stood there for a long moment, just looking at them.
Her heart urged her to go back. Her mind warned her not to. She had been broken once before—badly.
Tomorrow was Sunday.
After a long shower, she opened her cupboard and pulled out an old album. Her fingers trembled as she flipped through the pages. Photographs of her and Aarav from the past stared back at her—laughing, happy, unaware of what would come.
Tears slipped from her eyes, falling onto the pages. She hugged the album to her chest and lay down, exhaustion overpowering grief. Slowly, she drifted into sleep, wrapped in memories she never truly escaped.
In another apartment, Aarav slept too, unaware that the girl he was falling for already carried his past in her heart.
And somewhere between rain, silence, and unfinished conversations, fate waited for Sunday.
- Writer
