I Will

Another day, the same commute. Same bus, same hop-on, same hop-off, same walks to and from. It was the very first one you learned for your first days in university; it was the very same one you used now for work, coincidentally – and you’ve been employed there about the same length of your studenthood.

Very few things in life were as constant as this commute. You knew the number of the bus, its route, and each of its stops like it had been subliminally burned into your mind since your first words. And sure, there were hiccups, of course: the rare fingers-in-a-hand number of breakdowns, the not-as-rare incidents of hooliganism and disruption of the peace, some friendly exchanges with lost souls and bored souls and emotionally fraught souls.

All that changed one unassuming night, to the tune of a song you never quite understood.

Who knows how long I've loved you?

You know I love you still.

Will I wait a lonely lifetime?

If you want me to, I will.

Her. The outlier. The anomaly in the routine. And yet you knew nothing about her.

You don’t even recall how long ago it was when you first encountered her; by the day you fully recognized her perfume, you realized you’d been strangely familiar with it for a while.

You caught glimpses of her when the sea of people sloshed about and parted just the right way. Some days she stood lazily, an arm hung up against the railings; most days you just never saw her.

But you do remember the first day you met her.

You’d gone home particularly later than usual, enough that there were only a few buses left until the end of service. On its arrival, the graveyard shift that alighted left all its bones and dust in the humming, hulking metal box. But in this coffin you actually had a chance to enjoy the seats.

So did she, hopping on the bus at the next shed after yours before it drove again into the darkness.

And for some reason, in the empty bus, out of all the seats in it, out of all the universes those seats were taken, you were placed in the one where she opted to sit right next to you. It wasn’t a tight fit, but it was obviously not just some idle choice, where anyone else would’ve avoided this inconvenience.

That was the day you “remembered” that scent, permeating the space between you enough that you could mask a long whiff of it as a heavy sigh, staring out the window: synthetic strawberries and stale lavender. It wasn’t glamorous nor posh, but it was memorable.

And she was pretty. Innocent, perhaps even naïve to the exhausted world around her, of rising utility bills and stagnant minimum wage – a conclusion you came to by the brand of her clothes and, as mentioned, her perfume – but at least composed, if not a paragon of grace under such worldly pressures. The ID still around her neck belonging to what looked like a business outsourcing firm, from which you could safely assume her character with some certainty.

In its own way, there was beauty in that. You weren’t falling for a woman you just met, no – not by a longshot. But you’d be lying if you denied that her very presence around you stirred your chest into disarray, blanketing the surface of your skin with an invisible silky fabric of warmth and fuzziness unexplainable.

And your first, shaky and muttered words to her were “excuse me” as you hopped out of your seat and out of the bus.

In the brief moment you passed by her, your eyes met quietly. No dramatic theme song, no timestop – just the brief moment of the blacks of her eyes meeting yours.

To the day, that was three years ago. The memory is vivid still – the scent, the face, the eyes and lips – except for one thing.

For if I ever saw you,

I didn't catch your name.

But it never really mattered;

I will always feel the same.

Elizabeth. Her name was Elizabeth. At least, on her ID. You’d forgotten that until today.

Two years later and you crossed paths again. She seemed to have lost a lot of weight; though she already had seemingly sharp features hidden underneath what you could assume was baby fat back then, now she was so thin that her nose, her jawline, and her chin were so pronounced that it could cleave fireplace logs in half. And it made her prettier, admittedly and ashamedly in conformity to a standard most unfair, but she carried it well.

Except for one thing: her smile, or its lack thereof.

On that first encounter on the bus, she had a pair of headphones on, happily bopping her head to music, simply smiling. And you’d seen her many other times, doing the same. You’d come to appreciate it in its own way; had you been some plucky artistic type you’d have a little pad out and a charcoal tucked behind your ear, shading the shadows on her face when it came to you. Again, not in this universe.

But over those years, that smile faded. It wasn’t all at once, but a reality of life brought to the fore now that she was beside you once again. Not that it mattered to you personally – only that, as a fellow traveler of life, there was tragedy in its loss. And quite a loss it was: it was no mere dampening or wilful neglect of self, just the cold hard guillotine blade of reality slicing away at her day by day.

And today, the two of you seated beside each other once more, you had in your hands a small pack of jellybeans half eaten through. You probably shouldn’t be snacking on those as often as you did, but it was still a simple joy.

And without hesitation except the crumpling of packs…

You offered it to her.

She looked at you.

You locked eyes.

That split second moment lasted much longer than it did, like the world echoed and faded and blurred all around her face. Her eyes were big, and her lips…

They didn’t smile.

She grinned, edges of her lips curled ever so slightly, but only awkwardly and/or politely. Not a smile.

She rejected the offer with a single hand, and looked ahead out the window. That was that.

The world slowly sped back up. Sounds came back into clarity. Your limbs were bursting with the urge to kick and snap. Your torso almost rocked on its own. You glanced everywhere, perhaps a bit too obviously, looking anywhere else but her.

Once you could tell your stop was coming, you leaned over to grab your things. And in that one serendipitous instant, you happened to lock eyes with her again as you turned back. In that one moment, the hundreds of thoughts almost spilled out of your mouth: wanting to introduce yourself, to ask her for her name, to ask her on a date, know where she works, et cetera, ad nauseum.

So you threw up the only words you could safely utter: “You have a beautiful name.”

Then, and only then, she smiled. A real one, the kind of pleasant glee encapsulated in classical literature. And you smiled back with no resistance.

When you got to your stop moments later, you got off the bus. You glanced back at your seat by the window, where she moved in, and you locked eyes one more time.

She smiled.

You smiled.

Elizabeth was beautiful. You would have to tell her that once you had the ability to.

Love you forever and forever;

Love you with all my heart;

Love you whenever we're together;

Love you when we're apart.

Today was already yesterday, and it has been quite a day. You watched the clock anxiously tick by, the analog second hand shaking with every jolt forward. You shook your leg, wrung your hands, focusing on anything but the bed right by your side.

Because Liz was on it, motionless.

It happened just like last time: the luck of an empty seat, the serendipity of her seating, the tranquility of the moment. She didn’t smile, but by now you were used to it.

You could tell she was exhausted. Not only were her eyelids rising and falling, but her whole body too rocked about with the bus’ leans and creaks. At one particularly sharp turn, she leaned her head fully on yours.

Your chest ached. You looked down at her face, quiet and still. She was really pretty, even when you could see the sweat bead on her forehead and her hair a lot less contained in the heat of the engine.

You let it happen. It was cute, honestly, and you actually got to see a few more things about her.

Her name was actually Jiwon, scribbled in parentheses under her nickname Liz, the rest of Elizabeth now scratched out. Liz was still employed in that outsourcing company, which probably lent to her name and her exhaustion. She had a circle of friends who she held dear in a photo at the back of her ID, and she loved cats as much as them, telling by the few pawprint stickers on the holder.

She snores. Not loudly, but with how close you were it was very audible. She was so still that you felt the need to be extra gentle. Her hand fell into your lap; you let it stay. Her head slid onto your shoulder; you sat still.

When your stop came, you gently patted her head awake, or tried to. You shook her, and she didn’t budge. You called out for help, and carried her out onto the curb. Her eyes fluttered for a brief second, but she was still fully unconscious. Emergency services came in, and you rode with the ambulance.