Who am I to think I can have a life that feels like more?
I grip the fabric of my tote bag until my knuckles ache.
“That window’s not gonna hug you back, sweetheart.”
I blink and turn. The voice comes from across the aisle—a woman, maybe in her seventies, wearing coral lipstick and a soft denim jacket. She’s crocheting something in her lap and smiling like she knows exactly what kind of day I’ve had.
“Sorry,” I sniff. “Didn’t mean to make it everyone’s problem.”
“Oh, honey. You’re on a Greyhound bus on a Saturday. We’re all each other’s problems now.”
That gets a laugh out of me, somehow. A small one, but real.
“Bad day?” she asks, looping her yarn around her hook.
“Bad summer,” I mutter.
She hums thoughtfully, eyes on her stitching. “Boy trouble?”
I nod. “And family. And… me, mostly.”
She glances up. “You running from something?”
“I don’t know. Maybe I’m just not someone who gets the kind of life I want.”
She stops crocheting.
“Honey, who told you that lie?”
My throat tightens. “It just… never felt like it was meant for me, you know? The kind of love that doesn’t ask you to shrink. The kind that makes you feel… seen. Like you matter.”
She gives me a look so full of warmth it nearly guts me. “Well, I don’t know who taught you that you’re not allowed to want everything, but I’d like to have a word with them. Maybe even a slap.”
I laugh again. It comes out choked.
“Listen,” she says, leaning in a little, voice low and steady. “There are two kinds of people in this world: the ones who think they have to earn love by being perfect, and the ones who know love isn’t a prize, it’s a birthright. Guess which ones are happier?”
I blink fast. “The second?”
“Damn straight.” She reaches into her bag and pulls out a tissue, handing it to me. “Now you can sit here and keep punishing yourself for not being perfect. Or you can get off this bus, go tell that man what you actually feel, and live the kind of life that scares you a little. That’s usually how you know it’s the good kind.”
I sit there, holding the tissue like it’s holy, heart thudding so hard I feel it in my teeth.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
She winks. “You’ll figure it out. And if you don’t, come back and ride the bus again. We’re full of wisdom and bad snacks.”
I smile—and for the first time in a long time, it doesn’t feel like a mask.
33
FAITH
The bus hisses to a stop at the next sleepy town. I look out the window, heart thudding, as the door creaks open and no one moves.
But I do.
I stand.
