Every evening at exactly 6:40 PM, the same bus stopped at the corner of Maple Street. It was old, painted dull blue, and always overcrowded. People complained about it, yet everyone depended on it. Among them was Aarav, a quiet boy who always chose the last seat near the window.
Aarav liked that seat because it gave him space to think. From there, he watched the city rush past—shops closing, streetlights blinking awake, people hurrying home with tired faces. He rarely spoke to anyone. Not because he was rude, but because he believed stories were better observed than spoken.
One rainy evening, the bus was fuller than usual. Aarav boarded late and noticed something strange—his seat was already taken. A girl sat there, hugging a small notebook close to her chest. She looked nervous, as if she didn't belong in the crowd.
Aarav hesitated,then sat beside her.
For a few minutes,they sat in silence,listening to the rain drum against the windows.Suddenly,the girl's notebook slipped from her hands and fell open.Aarav glanced accidentally and saw pages filled with tiny drawings-people on buses,street vendors,stray dogs,and even the same bus stop they were sitting at now.
"You draw everyday life," Aarav said softly.
The girl looked surprised but smiled. "Yes. I'm scared of forgetting moments."
That sentence stayed with him.
They began talking slowly. Her name was Meera, an art student who traveled daily to teach children at a small community center. She sketched everything she felt but never showed her work to anyone. Aarav told her about his habit of watching people and collecting stories in his mind, though he had never written them down.
Days passed, and the bus rides became their shared routine. They didn't talk every day, but when they did, the conversations felt warm and honest. Aarav realized something had changed—he no longer watched life from a distance. He was part of it.
One evening, Meera didn't show up.
The next day, the seat remained empty.
A week passed, then another. Aarav felt an unexpected emptiness. The city outside the window looked the same, but something was missing.
On the fifteenth day, Aarav found a small envelope tucked into the corner of the last seat. Inside was a sketch of him sitting by the window, looking outside. On the back, a note read:
"Some stories are meant to be lived, not just observed. Don't let them pass you by."
—Meera
That night, Aarav opened a blank notebook for the first time. He began writing—not about the city, not about strangers—but about a rainy evening, a girl with a notebook, and a seat that taught him how to live.
And from that day on, the last seat on the bus was never just a seat again.
Thank you