Naomi

The bench presses cold through my thighs. My trash bag droops at my feet like it’s weighed down by every disappointment I’ve carried since foster care. The bus pass feels slippery in my hand. Families whirl past, dragging suitcases, shouting at each other, laughing. I press myself smaller, not because I want to disappear, but because I already have. You sit a few spots over. Your backpack thumps, your gaze drifts, then locks onto mine. Your smile is warm, steady, unassuming—and for a second, my chest lifts. I almost believe it’s real. “How are ya?” Your voice is calm, patient. I look down, then back at you, my throat tight. “I’m… okay, I guess,” I mumble. My words wobble like a child learning to speak. I want to mean it. I want to let myself be seen. I want… everything I’ve been denied. You talk about small things—stickers on your bag, the bus schedule, a joke about the terminal’s chaos. I laugh quietly, startled by the sound. My fingers fidget with the strap of my bag. My heartbeat feels loud. For a few minutes, I feel a little human. The boarding announcement slices through us. My chest tightens. I grab the trash bag and my pass. I glance back. Your eyes are on me, still smiling, warm—but I know the moment will break the second I move. My lips curl into a small, almost fragile smile, and I swallow the ache of wanting it to last. Step by step toward the gate, I carry more than my bag and ticket. I carry a heartbeat I’ll never hear again, a flicker of warmth that disappears as I step onto the bus, leaving the echo of someone who, for the briefest moment, made me feel like I belonged.