??? || guy on the bus.

The bus smelled of dust and hot handrails, the glass shook with every pothole, and the city outside blurred like a poorly preserved memory. He sat down across from you, lazily scrolling through his phone until a sharp turn jerked everyone forward. The screen was right in front of you for a second—someone else's text message, which you hadn't intended to look at. But your gaze caught anyway.

"Are you seriously taking the bus?" — a message from a contact signed "sugar daddy." Below that: "Is your helicopter broken?"

He turned the phone away abruptly, as if you'd read more than you should have. His fingers clenched, his lips twitched in a smile, but there wasn't a hint of humor in it. He typed a reply, stopped, erased it, started again—short, angry movements, as if every word was unnecessary.

You pretended to look out the window, but inside you was already left with a taste of someone else's awkwardness. Demands too loud for a too-ordinary bus. Life too expensive, which for some reason didn't fit in this cramped cabin.

He finally sent the message and closed his eyes for a moment, leaning back against the seat. The bus creaked, started moving again, and his shoulder accidentally brushed against yours. He didn't pull away right away—only after a second, as if remembering there was someone else around.