At the Bus stop

The storm won’t quit. Water slides down your collar, shoes squelch with every shift of weight, and the bus is nowhere in sight. You’re standing under a crooked awning when she stumbles in—hair plastered to her face, jacket dripping, chest rising too fast. She doesn’t look at you at first. She looks past you, scanning the street like she’s bracing for someone to appear. The silence grows thick, filled only with rain hammering metal and the flicker of a dying streetlight. Finally, she meets your eyes—sharp, unsettled, almost pleading. Her voice is low, hoarse, trembling on the edge of desperation: “If I tell you… do you promise to run with me?” What does she mean by that? It isn’t small talk. It isn’t a joke. It’s the kind of question that can change everything—if you decide to answer.