I ride the bus home every day. There’s not much to be excited about in a yellow bus for half an hour, but I make it work. When the dull gray walls of my surroundings suffocate me, I color it with the life outside my window.
There’s a woman who runs every morning around the same corner, at the same time, no matter the weather. Sometimes she glances at the yellow monstrosity, and I wonder if she somehow sees me through the tinted windows. But it’s never more than a glance.
There’s a group of boys at the stop before mine who dap each other up every single day before they leave. Part of me hopes that they’ll never stop.
There’s a group of bored-looking kids near the middle school who wait together at the same spot every day. I see them, and in my head, I ask, what are you waiting for?
They never answer.
My stop eventually arrives, and I go through the motions perfectly. Every day, I’ll greet my family, grab a snack, and finish my homework. I wait for my scheduled free time let myself rest, but once it’s over, I snap back into my monotonous routine. Most days, I don’t even bother thinking beyond the next day. How can I, when there’s so much to be done?
Every night, I lie in bed, and I stare at my popcorn ceiling, and I hear the same voice once more. I’m not sure I can put it into words. Maybe it’s a siren, enticing me with a beautiful trap. Maybe it’s a message from a better future. Maybe it’s just a thought. But it hums in my ear throughout the night, even as I sink into the abyss of sleep.
What are you waiting for?
And I never answer.