(Sometimes the smallest pauses reveal the most about how we move through the world.)
The rain arrives without ceremony.
It settles –
a steady rehearsal against the plastic roof
of the shelter
where three of us pretend
not to notice each other.
Water gathers at the curb
like a thought that can’t quite cross the street.
The red numbers blink:
2 mins, then DUE.
The man in the parka shifts his weight,
his sneakers making that heavy, wet suction
against the concrete.
I watch my breath bloom and vanish on the glass,
thinking how easy it is
to let the world happen without me.
A bus roars past the opposite lane,
spraying a thin arc of water
that freckles the timetable.
No one flinches.
The woman beside me scrolls her phone,
thumb moving in small, practiced swipes
polishing the surface of another life
while this one waits.
The rain thickens,
not harder,
just more certain.
The brakes groan – a metallic sigh.
She pockets her phone,
the blue glow ghosting her face for a second.
The doors fold open with a soft hydraulic breath.
They climb in, one by one,
as if answering a name
I don’t remember being called.
Warm light spills onto the pavement,
turning the rain into falling wires.
For a moment, I consider stepping forward.
Instead, I stay.
The driver glances once –
not impatient,
just confirming I exist.
Then the doors close.
The bus dissolves into the wet dark,
and the shelter grows larger
without the others in it.
The rain resumes its even speech
against the roof.
I watch my breath bloom again,
proof I am still here,
even when I don’t go.