The Seat Beside Me

“Sometimes the hardest journey isn’t the one that takes you to another place. It’s the one that helps you leave your past behind.”

It was 2023, my first year in college.

People often say that college is where life begins. New friends, new dreams, and a new chapter.

Maybe they’re right.

For me, it was where everything fell apart before it had the chance to begin.

A few years ago, I had gone through my first heartbreak. It wasn’t just the end of a relationship. It felt like losing a part of myself. Days became longer, nights became quieter, and I slowly stopped enjoying the things that once made me happy.

Everyone told me that time would heal everything.

I didn’t believe them.

So instead of waiting for time to fix me, I decided to keep moving.

I joined scouting. I started hiking whenever I had the chance. I spent weekends exploring places I had never seen before. Every new road gave me a reason to keep walking, and every new journey made my thoughts a little quieter.

I wasn’t running toward a destination.

I was running away from memories.

One evening, while scrolling through Facebook and YouTube, I came across videos of a place called Tanguar Haor.

The endless water reflected the blue sky like a giant mirror. Wooden boats floated peacefully across the haor, birds flew freely above the wetlands, and the sunset painted the water with shades of gold and orange.

I watched one video.

Then another.

And another.

Before I realized it, I had already made up my mind.

“I’m going.”

There was only one problem.

Money.

As a college student, I didn’t have much. I wasn’t earning anything, and asking my family for extra money wasn’t an option. If I wanted to travel, I had to make it happen myself.

For months, I had been dropping whatever I could save into a small blue plastic savings bank that sat quietly on my study table.

Five taka.

Twenty taka.

Sometimes fifty.

It wasn’t much, but little by little, it became my travel fund.

That evening, I picked it up and smiled.

“This better be enough.”

I grabbed a screwdriver from the drawer and carefully broke it open.

Coins rolled across the floor.

Folded notes slipped out one after another.

I counted everything once.

Then I counted again just to be sure.

Eight thousand.

I leaned back against the bed and laughed.

“Looks like we’re going after all.”

For a few seconds, I simply stared at the money scattered across the floor.

Eight thousand taka.

To someone else, it might have been nothing special.

To me, it was freedom.

It was every five-taka coin I had refused to spend on snacks.

Every twenty-taka note I had saved instead of using for something unnecessary.

Every small sacrifice that had slowly turned into a journey.

I gathered the money and placed it carefully on my desk.

The next few hours disappeared in planning.

I searched for the cheapest buses from Dhaka to Sunamganj. I compared ticket prices. I watched travel vlogs. I read random travel posts written by strangers who had already visited the haor.

I wrote down possible routes in my notebook.

Dhaka.

Sunamganj.

Tahirpur.

Tanguar Haor.

Everything had to fit inside my budget.

I even made a list of expected expenses.

Bus tickets.

Food.

Boat fare.

A cheap guesthouse.

Emergency money.

Nothing more.

I calculated everything several times.

Whenever the total crossed my budget, I removed something.

A better room?

No.

Extra food?

No.

A more expensive bus?

Definitely not.

I wasn’t going there to live comfortably.

I was going there to feel alive.

Travel had already taught me one lesson.

Luxury creates comfort.

A small budget creates stories.

When the plan was finally complete, I packed my old hiking backpack.

Two T-shirts.

One pair of jeans.

A towel.

A notebook.

A pen.

A phone charger.

A power bank.

A bottle of water.

A small first-aid kit.

It wasn’t much.

It didn’t need to be.

Before leaving, I checked my phone battery three times.

Then I checked the bus ticket again.

Then the money.

Then the ticket again.

I laughed at myself.

Maybe I was nervous.

Maybe I was excited.

Or maybe I simply couldn’t believe that I was actually going.

Late that night, I stood outside my house with my backpack on my shoulders.

The streets were almost empty.

The city was unusually quiet.

Dhaka never truly sleeps, but sometimes it becomes quiet enough to make you believe it does.

A few rickshaws passed by.

A shopkeeper was pulling down the shutter of his store.

Somewhere in the distance, a bus honked.

I took one last look behind me before walking toward the main road.

For a moment, I thought about everything I was leaving behind.

My room.

My college.

The familiar streets.

The memories.

Her.

That last thought stayed with me longer than the others.

I had spent years trying not to think about her.

Yet somehow, every journey began with me thinking about the same person.

Maybe that was the problem.

I was travelling to different places, but I was carrying the same past everywhere I went.

Still, that night I made a quiet promise to myself.

This trip would be different.

I wouldn’t think about yesterday.

I would look at the water.

I would watch the sunrise.

I would meet strangers.

I would take photographs.

I would walk until my feet hurt.

And maybe, just maybe, I would come back feeling a little lighter.

The road toward Mohakhali was busier than I expected.

By the time I reached the bus terminal, the night had fully taken over the city.

The terminal was filled with people.

Families carrying bags.

Students carrying backpacks.

Workers returning home.

Vendors shouting for passengers.

Tea stalls glowing under bright lights.

Buses arrived and left one after another.

For a few minutes, I simply stood there and watched.

Everyone seemed to be going somewhere.

Everyone had a destination.

Everyone was carrying something.

Some carried luggage.

Some carried gifts for their families.

Some carried responsibilities.

And some, like me, were carrying memories they wished they could leave behind.

I found my bus and checked the ticket.

Sunamganj.

I climbed aboard and found my seat near the window.

The bus smelled of dust, fabric, and the faint scent of diesel.

I placed my backpack beside me and looked outside.

The city lights moved across the window as the bus slowly pulled away.

I watched Dhaka disappear behind me.

One street.

Then another.

Then another.

The buildings became fewer.

The lights became dimmer.

The road became darker.

I leaned my head against the window.

For the first time that night, I felt calm.

Maybe I really was leaving something behind.

The bus stopped once before leaving the city completely.

More passengers climbed aboard.

A family.

Two university students.

An elderly man.

And then...

She entered.

I noticed her only because she was standing in the aisle looking for her seat.

She carried a small backpack and a black shoulder bag.

Her hair was tied loosely behind her head.

She wore a simple outfit, nothing that demanded attention.

She looked tired.

Maybe she had travelled before.

Maybe she hadn’t.

I didn’t know.

She walked past my seat without looking at me.

I moved my backpack slightly so she could pass.

“Sorry,” she said quietly.

“It’s okay.”

That was our first conversation.

Two words from her.

Two from me.

Nothing more.

She found her seat a few rows ahead.

I looked back toward the window.

I didn’t think about her again.

At least, I thought I wouldn’t.

The bus started moving.

The lights inside slowly dimmed.

People settled into their seats.

Some began talking.

Some put on earphones.

Some immediately fell asleep.

I opened my notebook.

On the first empty page, I wrote:

Tanguar Haor2023A journey to forget.

I stared at the sentence.

Then I crossed out the last three words.

A journey to begin again.

I smiled.

Outside the window, the city was disappearing into darkness.

Inside the bus, everyone was becoming quiet.

I closed my notebook and rested my head against the glass.

I didn’t know what the next morning would bring.

I didn’t know what the haor would look like in real life.

I didn’t know whether eight thousand taka would be enough.

And I certainly didn’t know that the girl sitting a few rows ahead of me would soon become part of a story I would remember for years.

At that moment...

She was just another passenger.

A stranger.

Someone whose name I didn’t know.

Someone whose story I knew nothing about.

Someone I had no reason to remember.

But life has a strange way of introducing people.

Sometimes it doesn’t announce them.

Sometimes it doesn’t give you a warning.

Sometimes a person simply walks onto a bus on an ordinary night, takes a seat a few rows ahead, and unknowingly becomes part of your life.

The bus continued into the darkness.

And somewhere between Dhaka and Sunamganj, while I was trying to leave my past behind, a new chapter was quietly making its way toward me.

I just didn’t know it yet.