The Jam That Didn’t Annoy Me
Evening jams are usually the worst part of my day.
Everyone is tired.
Everyone wants to reach home.
Everyone silently curses the city traffic.
And that day was no different — except for one thing.
She was already in the bus.
She always boards earlier than me because her college is farther than my workplace. By the time I get in, she’s usually somewhere in the middle seats… quiet, composed, unknowingly stealing every bit of attention she never asks for.
I entered, scanning lazily for a seat, when the bus suddenly slowed… then groaned… and finally gave up into a long, hopeless standstill.
The evening jam.
People sighed. Someone mumbled something about “daily torture.” A few stood up to see what was happening outside.
But I wasn’t looking outside.
I was looking at her.
By chance, only one dual seat had space — beside her.
Fate does these small things so casually that it almost feels like a joke.
I walked toward the seat, trying not to look nervous, trying not to seem too aware of her presence. She shifted slightly, giving me space, her face calm, her eyes tired from the day but still holding that softness I can never explain.
Her stop comes before mine on our return journey, so every time we travel together, I know she’ll get down first.
I know the seat beside me will feel strangely empty afterward.
But that day, the jam stretched the moments longer than usual. Minutes felt slow, suspended in warm orange evening light leaking through the window.
She looked outside, hair falling gently on her cheek.
I looked outside too… pretending.
But truthfully, the jam didn’t annoy me at all.
Not that evening.
Because for the first time, I was sitting close enough to hear the faint rustle of her phone, to see the reflections in her eyes, to feel the quiet presence of someone who didn’t even know she was becoming a part of my routine.
A part of my day.
A part of my thoughts.
When the bus finally crawled forward again, she gathered her things. Her stop was next. She stood up, holding the railing, and for a second — just one quiet second — her eyes met mine.
A soft, accidental acknowledgment.
Then she stepped down.
The door closed.
The bus moved.
And I remained there, staring at the empty seat, wondering how an ordinary jam could become the beginning of something so unexpectedly gentle.
Something I couldn’t name yet…
but already felt.
