They never spoke.
Not because they couldn't, but because the world never made room for it.
Every morning, she sat by the window of the city bus, fingers wrapped around the strap of her bag, watching the streets blur into routine. Every morning, he stood at the same crossing, waiting for the light to change, jacket zipped too high, thoughts somewhere else.
The first time their eyes met, it was accidental.
The bus slowed. The red light held. She looked up without thinking—and there he was. He looked back, equally unprepared. It lasted no longer than a breath, yet something shifted, quiet but undeniable, like a page turning in a book neither of them knew they were reading.
The next day, it happened again.
This time, they were ready.
No smiles. No gestures. Just eyes finding eyes, as if drawn by a gravity that ignored distance and noise. In that small, suspended moment, the city softened. Cars hummed. People passed. But between them, there was a stillness that felt almost sacred.
Days became weeks.
Their glances grew familiar, gentle. She learned the way his eyes crinkled slightly at the corners, as if he was always on the edge of a thought. He learned the way her gaze lingered—not demanding, not shy—just honest. Through those looks, they spoke in a language without sound.
Are you tired today?
Yes. But seeing you helps.
Did you notice the rain this morning?
I did. It made everything feel slower.
They never said these things.
They never needed to.
Some mornings, she arrived late and didn't see him. Those days felt incomplete, like forgetting something important at home. Some evenings, he waited longer than usual, scanning every passing bus, heart sinking each time it wasn't hers.
Then one day, the bus didn't stop.
The light was green. The city moved on. Her window passed him by without pause.
Their eyes met—but only briefly. Panic flickered between them. He took a step forward. She pressed her hand against the glass.
Too fast. Too late.
The next morning, he wasn't there.
She searched the crossing, the sidewalk, the crowd. Nothing. Her chest ached with a loss that felt strange and unjust—how could you miss someone you never spoke to?
Weeks passed. Life resumed its rhythm, dull and obedient.
Until one evening, as the sun dipped low and painted the streets gold, she stood at the same crossing—this time on foot.
And there he was.
No bus. No glass. No distance.
Their eyes met again, and the world fell silent just as it always had—but now, there was nothing left to stop them.
He smiled first.
She smiled back.
And for the first time, words felt unnecessary—but possible.