Note: The following story is fictional, but is based on an amalgam of real-life events.
A fourteen year old you takes your seat by the window, headphones and all. The big red bus is filled with the sort of people you would hate to interact with at a dinner party- obnoxious middle-aged aunties, loud cricket fans in the midst of a heated debate about whether the T20 format meant the death of the gentleman’s game, and obviously, those random creeps who stare at you the whole ride for no apparent reason.
You stare fixedly out the window, pointedly avoiding the gaze of that old man, his eyes burning into your very soul. As the bus slows down approaching the next stop, something, or rather, someone catches your eye. A lanky boy- about thirteen, or perhaps a girl. You've had several embarrassing experiences before, confusing genders, and this specimen could be either. Short black hair, but a mild look about the mouth that boys of that age seldom possess. The kid is wearing a black t-shirt with a large white triangle printed on it. You've never seen that symbol before, but, then again, you live under a rock, so you’re hardly surprised. He, or she, wore dark blue jeans, neither low-waist nor skinny, which instantly makes you feel connected to him, or her. Humans are weird that way. What strikes you most are this person’s shoes. They’re the same Converse shoes, but one is yellow, the other, blue. As stated earlier, the fourteen year old you lives under a rock, where everyone adheres to their parents’ fashion sense and obviously wears shoes and socks of the same colour. The bus grinds to a halt, and the stranger looks up with large brown eyes that remind you of your family Labrador, and rushes to get on. The seat next to yours is empty, and you, very consciously, pray that the new passenger sits in it. You’re more disappointed than you care to admit when, instead, they, with whom you already believe you've formed a bond, slip into a vacant seat across the aisle, two rows ahead.
As the bus suddenly lurches forward, you drop your iPod as you try and skip to the next track. It makes a louder noise on striking the floor than you expect, and a few curious heads turn to investigate. Your heart skips a beat when, on picking up the source of this mild embarrassment, you notice your stranger (your overheated adolescent brain has already claimed him, or her, as your own) looking at you. Your eyes meet for a fleeting moment, and then, as the bus accelerates, the contact is broken, and your stranger is already staring out the opposite window. You, of course, look in their direction every few minutes, throughout the forty minute ride. When your stop approaches, and you get out of your seat, you almost want to bid farewell to them (you actually want them to disembark with you, but you obviously don’t admit that to yourself). Your stranger doesn't even glance away from the window as you step off. As you turn to watch the bus proceed on its way, you catch a glimpse of those big brown eyes again, but they don’t catch a glimpse of you. You walk away, captivated, and slightly dejected, knowing both that your day has been made infinitely better by the stranger, and that you may never see them again.
You didn't find out what their voice sounded like. You didn't find out what the white triangle on their shirt was meant to be. You didn't find out why one of their shoes was yellow, and not blue. You didn't even find out whether your stranger was a boy or a girl.
