Photo by Dan Bøțan on Unsplash

Every time that bus vroomed, it was a sign of time fleeting. She did not want to go. Just the sight of that bus made her furrow her brows and grimace. Even at times when she wasn’t supposed to be on it. She did not like the journey or the destination. That sound made her apprehensive. Every other month, she would leave home and board that bus to go 220 kilometres away. And every single time, she hated it. Not the idea of leaving home – that she could handle. But the place she was going back to. Three years is what that place took from her. Three years of an environment of dullness, discouragement, and zero lifelikeness on strange faces that never got familiar.

She was back home that day, driving gaily on the roads she knew so well, humming to the tunes of her favourite songs after a good day when she saw that bus a second after she heard that sound. It was about to leave. Passengers were waving goodbye till the bus left and they were no longer visible. She thought of the feeling she would unmistakably have when it would be her time to go, again. She frowned.

It took her a moment to realise that that time, that day, was never going to come. This time, she was back, for good. That phase of disdain, that journey, that motion sickness, the dreary faces, were no longer her worry. It was finally over. She grinned at the word ‘over’. After a long time, that bus – no matter what sounds it made – did not give her wrinkled brows. She drove away without a care in the world. In that moment, she gulped down the realisation of a change of path for a better, newer journey; to a destination she knew was great, and unknown.

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