The Stranger at the Bus Stop
The Day I Met My Own Fears
It was late October, and the cold wind of early evening cut through the streets like a knife. I remember pulling my jacket tighter around me as I stood alone at the bus stop, watching the light slowly drain from the sky.
The streetlights hadn’t flickered on yet, and the world was caught in that strange, uneasy twilight where nothing felt quite real.
I was the only one there.
The bus had been late, as usual, and I could feel that familiar weight of isolation pressing on me — the sense that everyone else was busy with their lives, hurrying home to someone, while I was just… waiting.
Waiting for what, exactly?
A bus?
Something more?
I wasn’t sure. All I knew was that, as the minutes ticked by, an odd feeling of dread crept up the back of my neck. It wasn’t just the cold. It was something else.
I checked my phone for the time — 6:43 p.m. — and no messages. No missed calls. No notifications at all.
The small screen’s glow felt almost mocking in the dim light. Of course, no one had reached out.
Why would they?
