The buses were always late. So was Rihan.
Nira had learned to expect both. She sat on the familiar wooden bench near the end of the line, sketchbook open on her lap, pencil poised. She didn't draw anything important—just faces, fragments of moments she didn't want to forget. The world was fast and noisy; drawing made it quiet for her .
Then he appeared, as usual, like a whirlwind of misplaced energy. Sneakers slapped the pavement, tie half undone, bag hanging from one strap.
"Don't say it," he warned the moment he reached the bench, hands on his knees, breathing hard. "Not a word. Today is totally not my fault."
Nira didn't look up. "Was it traffic?"
"No."
"Aliens again?"
He paused, narrowing his eyes. "How did you know?"
"I guessed," she said, flipping a page.
He slumped beside her, exhaling in relief. "You should be a detective. Or a mind reader. Or both."
"Or," she said, smirking, "you could try being on time."
"That's boring," he replied. "Punctuality kills personality."
"Or proves responsibility."
"Ugh. You sound like my mom."
"Then she must be right."
He laughed, leaning back against the bench. "You're impossible."
"You're late."
They exchanged a glance, a quiet truce forming in their half-smiles. The bus hadn't come yet, and neither of them seemed to care.
Rihan leaned closer, peering at her sketchbook. "What are you drawing today?"
"Faces."
"Mine?"
She raised an eyebrow. "I don't draw fictional characters."
He gasped dramatically. "Wow. My self-esteem just died a slow, artistic death."
Nira's lips curved, hidden behind her pencil. "I'll attend the funeral."
He laughed, that easy, unguarded laugh that made her chest tighten in a way she didn't understand yet.
The bus arrives and they finally boarded and sat with their own friends leaving the conversation in the middle.
Days passed in this rhythm. Chips one day, ice cream the next. Rainy afternoons where he held his bag over her head, her scolding him for being stupid while staying close enough to be drenched anyway.
When they missed the bus, they sat in silence sharing his scratched-up earphones. His playlist was awful. She didn't say so.
Slowly, the rhythm of the world changed. It wasn't about buses anymore—it was about waiting. About seeing the same face across the same street at the same time each day.
⸻
One golden evening, he asked quietly, "Hey… when we're fifty and old and boring, will you still wait here?"
Nira tilted her head, amused. "If I'm fifty and still waiting for a bus, something went very wrong in my life."
"Maybe not," he said softly. "Maybe it just means you never left the right place."
She looked away, pretending to sketch, but her hand froze mid-line. His words lingered heavier than his jokes.
He grinned again, changing the subject. "Draw us here. So even if we stop coming someday, I'll remember."
"That's cheesy," she said.
"I prefer 'romantically self-aware.'"
"Cringe."
"Admit it—you like it."
She didn't answer. But that night, she drew them anyway: two figures on a bench under a sunset, one smiling, the other pretending not to.
Later that night, her phone buzzed.
RIHAN: "Big news. Tell you tomorrow!"
She smiled at the screen. Typed:
NIRA: "Okay. Don't be late."
Then didn't send it. Just stared, imagining him standing at the bus stop, tie askew, hair messy, grinning like he had the world in his pocket.
Tomorrow never came.