Flashback…
The bus was always cold.
Even in September. Even when my palms stuck to the straps of my backpack from leftover summer heat. The second I stepped on, the cold wrapped around me like a second skin.
He used to say it was for "safety." That the cold kept kids from falling asleep, kept drivers alert. That it was regulation.
But it felt like punishment.
Like the kind of cold that teaches you to sit still. Be quiet. Obey.
I was eleven when I learned what grown-ups mean when they say misunderstanding.
Twelve when I tried to tell.
Not loud. Not dramatic. Just... enough. A sentence with too much shaking in it. Words that took everything I had.
And still, they didn't listen.
"He's a church man."
"He drives kids home every day."
"He lost his wife last year."
"You sure he didn't just… pat your shoulder?"
I said no.
They said nothing.
Just looked at each other with tight mouths and tired eyes.
Like my words were a mess they didn't want to clean up.
After that, I stopped sitting near windows.
I stopped looking grown men in the eye.
I stopped saying anything that might get me noticed.
Now, I walk to school when I can. Sit near exits when I can't. Sketch to keep my hands busy, because sometimes I still feel his breath near my ear when the world goes too quiet.
And every time someone says "speak up", I wonder if they've ever had their words fall into a room and never come back out.