The bus mirror hates me.
It's a cruel little rectangle dangling from the ceiling, showing me my own tired reflection every night like a passive-aggressive reminder to get my life together.
Dirty blonde hair flattened by my hoodie, blue eyes rimmed with sleep, and a shadow of stubble that says I forgot to shave again. Pretty standard for someone who just finished a five-hour shift.
I look away, already annoyed with myself. It's too late for self-reflection. Literally.
The last bus of the night hums quietly as it rolls through the city, headlights casting sleepy gold on empty sidewalks. And there—like always—is her.
Same seat. Same posture. Same unreadable expression as she scrolls through her tablet.
She's striking, in that quietly dangerous way. Black hair falling like ink across her hoodie, features too elegant for this dusty old vehicle. Her eyes—deep, dark, obsidian—are focused on the screen like it's a window to another world.
She doesn't notice me. Or maybe she does and doesn't care.
I settle into the seat across from her, peeling off my jacket, pretending not to glance over. She's been here the past few weeks. We've never spoken. There's an odd comfort in that.
Until tonight.
"You always read on here?" I ask before my brain can stop my mouth.
She glances up. Her expression doesn't shift much, but her eyes sharpen slightly, like she's scanning me for signs of weirdness.
"Usually," she replies. Her voice is calm. Low. Pretty.
"What genre?" I ask, shifting in my seat, suddenly aware of how loud the plastic cover on my backpack sounds.
"Romance. A little drama. Some slow-burns."
I blink. That sounds… familiar.
"You ever read Under the Moonlight, I Write?" I ask, careful to sound casual.
That gets a reaction.
She raises a brow, lips curving into the faintest smile. "By Nymphaea?"
"Yeah."
"I like it," she says simply. "It's quiet. Thoughtful."
Exactly the words I would've used.
"It's one of my favorites," I admit, letting the words fall out like I'm saying something embarrassing. "Feels like it actually gets people. Y'know? The characters… feel real."
She hums, not disagreeing.
We fall into a weird, easy silence after that. It's not awkward, though. Just… quiet. The kind of silence where you're both thinking about the same thing but don't need to say it out loud.
The bus bumps slightly as it turns a corner, the city's glow flickering through the windows like fading memories.
I catch her looking at me, just for a second.
"Do you write?" she asks, tilting her head slightly.
"Trying to," I say with a half-laugh. "Not sure I'm any good."
She doesn't respond right away, but there's something knowing in her expression. Like she's heard that answer before.
The bus slows. Her stop.
She stands, tablet slipping into her bag, and for the first time, I wonder where she goes. What she does. Who she is when she's not reading on a half-empty bus at midnight.
"See you," she says, not looking back.
The doors hiss open. Cold air spills in. Then she's gone.
And I'm left with the mirror, my tired reflection, and the faintest imprint of a voice that likes Nymphaea just as much as I do.
'Seeyou' I say to myself while my heart beats, waiting for the next day.