I stepped directly onto the bus. No one was there to kiss me or hug me or simply wave goodbye with a smile, and it was new to me. Regardless of where I was or what I had done, there was always someone there to bid me adieu from the sidelines, whether they were important to me or not. A true sense of loneliness never hit me as suddenly as it did here in this moment. It paralyzed any excitement I had built for the foreseeable future, and rightfully so. Rather than linger around the bus terminal, I quickly hopped onto the bus long before it's departure time in order to shake off the distinctly depressing state of mind that I created from nothing.
I sat in the back of the bus and watched the couples, business acquaintances, friends, and families fill the seats in front of me. Children began to cry as their parents would quietly hush them to sleep. Loud conversations among friends and family soon followed. The aisles were covered in a layer of garbage from patrons past consisting of empty bottles and plastic bags, making crinkling sounds every so often. It was far more comfortable than a sleek, spotless, and silent bus ride, for sure. Those tend to go by a lot more slowly, in my experience. Being fixed on my surroundings so intensely postponed any truly depressing feelings of my own.
The bus departed and the soft rumbling of the interstate pavement tried to lull me to sleep. A bump or pothole would wake me just as I would get perfectly comfortable enough for some much needed rest. Giving up on the idea of a beginning-to-end bus ride of uninterrupted sleep, I decided to write a letter to someone whom I hadn't seen in many years.
"Please excuse the sloppy handwriting to follow. I am currently riding on a bouncy bus heading toward Seattle, Washington, and my hand is being jerked all over the paper. You will be reluctant to hear that I have not developed Terret's Syndrome or any spastic disorder of the like. Just simply cruising down the highway..." It was a letter to a girl from home. She was the first woman that I had ever loved and she still owned a fair portion of my heart, whether she was aware of not I am not sure. I would write to her time and time again, never recieving a response, and I will constantly make up reasons to justify it. "Maybe my letters aren't reaching her. Maybe she moved away. Maybe she's become illiterate." I would think to myself. I still very much enjoyed writing to her because on the off chance that she actually was reading the letters, it made it worth my while.
