Chapter 12: Quick Glance
529 Words
The bus ride home felt colder than it should’ve.
Outside the window, trees blurred past in streaks of green and gold, the sun flickering between them like a broken signal. Everyone else was asleep or pretending to be—curled against backpacks, earphones tucked in, necks bent at awkward angles.
But I wasn’t asleep.
And neither was he.
Evren sat on the opposite side of the aisle, two rows ahead. Hoodie up, eyes fixed on the window. Headphones on.
Ignoring me.
Still.
I hadn’t said anything since the storage room.
I hadn’t even looked at him once after that—at least not in a way he’d notice.
But I’d memorized every inch of his back. The way his hand tapped the edge of his seat. The way his shoulder lifted slightly when he exhaled. The way he didn’t lean on anyone, didn’t speak to anyone.
Just like me.
Alone.
But not the same.
I could still feel the ghost of his warmth from the kitchen. The soft rise of tension when my fingers brushed his. The pulse in his neck when I whispered in his ear.
He could pretend nothing happened all he wanted.
But I remembered everything.
My heart wouldn’t shut up. It thudded against my ribs every time I caught a glimpse of his reflection in the window. Faint. Fuzzy. Out of reach.
Still, I wanted to crawl into that seat with him.
Pull his hoodie down. Tilt his face toward me. Force him to look at me, really look—the way he did under firelight, right before I kissed him.
Instead, I stayed frozen in my seat, lips dry, fingers twitching inside the sleeve of my sweater.
Someone near the front turned on music from a phone speaker. A soft, upbeat song. The kind that would normally make everyone hum along or complain.
But not this time.
Everything felt off.
Even the air between us—thin, brittle, like stretched rubber about to snap.
The bus hit a bump.
He shifted.
I watched the curve of his hand, the pale stretch of his neck, the edge of his hoodie brushing the sharp line of his jaw.
I wanted to bite him there.
I wanted him to ask me to.
But he didn’t turn around.
Didn’t glance back.
Not once.
And it stung in a way that felt too big for my chest to hold. Like all the tension had nowhere to go now, like all the wanting was backing up inside me, pushing at my throat, behind my eyes.
He hadn’t messaged me again.
Not after that night.
Not even to say goodbye.
But I knew he was thinking about it.
He had to be.
Because when I stepped off the bus and the sunlight hit us both again—real life, real time—I saw him glance at me from the corner of his eye.
Barely.
Quick.
Like he was checking if I was looking.
I was.
But I didn’t smile this time.
I just walked away.
Let him feel the silence.
Let him sit with it.
Because ignoring me won’t save him.
Not from this.
Not from me.
- Writer
