When we finally touched

Chapter Three: Absence

The next morning, I almost didn’t board the bus.

It wasn’t laziness or forgetfulness. It was fear. Fear that he wouldn’t be there. That the fragile thread we had been weaving over the last three weeks—silent greetings, careful glances, almost-touching hands—might break if he was gone.

But the city had a way of pulling you along, and by habit, I found myself at my stop. I scanned the street, heart thumping. The familiar pole where he always leaned… empty.

Relief and disappointment collided in a strange, bitter mix.

I boarded, trying not to seem like I was searching. Every empty space on the bus felt larger than it should. Every hand that brushed mine felt intrusive. Every sudden lurch of the bus made me flinch as if I expected him to appear and steady me.

He didn’t.

By the time I reached my stop, I realized how much his presence had been anchoring me. Even the city outside—the buildings, the cars, the rushing pedestrians—felt sharper, harsher, less forgiving without him there.

That afternoon, I couldn’t focus. My desk at work felt unusually hard, my computer keys heavier. I found myself tracing the curve of my palm, remembering how his fingers had pressed against my arm the day before.

I told myself it didn’t mean anything. That a touch wasn’t love. That mornings on a bus didn’t matter in the grand scheme of life. But my chest tightened in protest.

The following morning, I hesitated again. My feet moved of their own accord, carrying me to the bus. I stepped aboard, half-expecting empty seats, half-hoping… praying… that he would be there.

And he was.

Relief washed over me in an almost embarrassing wave. He was standing near the back, calm, composed, his book still in hand but unopened. His eyes found mine instantly. That familiar flicker of recognition—and relief—passed across his face.

For a moment, the world narrowed to just the two of us.

“I thought you wouldn’t come,” I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper.

“So did you,” he replied, his tone quiet, careful. Almost vulnerable.

We both knew what he meant without saying more. It wasn’t about being on the bus. It was about noticing. About being present. About whether the other would still choose to appear.

The bus lurched, and his hand brushed against mine—deliberately, intentionally, as if testing boundaries, feeling out this strange, new connection. My breath caught. His fingers lingered a fraction longer than necessary before he withdrew just enough to avoid overstepping.

We stared at each other, suspended in that half-second of contact. I wanted to ask so many questions, to know why he did this, to know why I felt so much at a simple touch.

But we didn’t speak.

Instead, I realized something that surprised me: I didn’t want to speak. Words could ruin this. Words could force something that was meant to grow slowly, naturally, like the subtle turning of a flower toward sunlight.

When my stop arrived, I hesitated before stepping off. He noticed, of course, and for a fleeting second, I thought he might follow.

But he didn’t.

I walked the familiar path to my office, my thoughts tangled in the small, intimate moments of the bus ride. The absent mornings hurt more than I expected. The present ones filled me with a longing I couldn’t name.

And through it all, one thought echoed louder than anything else:

I was already waiting for him.