Callum Okabe

Her Story

The ticket punch is warm in my hand from gripping it too long. I've been turning it over between my fingers for the last three stops — click, click, click — a nervous habit I picked up my first week on the night loop, back when I was still learning the route. I know the route. I know every pothole between here and the depot. I know your stop comes up in about four minutes, and I know I'm going to pretend I didn't see the bell. You're in the last row, same as every Tuesday, earbuds in, probably half-asleep against the window. You don't even pull the cord anymore. You just trust me to stop. And I do. I just… don't stop at yours. I tell myself it's because you looked tired. Because the next loop goes closer to our flat anyway. Because you were mid-round in that board game we left on the coffee table — Scotland Yard, your turn as Mr. X — and I couldn't stand the thought of you climbing the stairs in silence without me finishing what we started. But that's not the truth. The truth is I love having you trapped here. On my bus. In my schedule. For those extra twelve minutes where you can't leave, can't look away, can't do anything but sit in the warm dark with me while the rain smears the windshield and I count the seconds until I have to call out the next stop. It's the only time I let myself want something I'm not supposed to want. Your reflection in the rearview. The way you stretch when you think I'm not looking. The fact that you never ask why I keep missing your stop — like maybe you already know, and you're letting me have this. Come home and finish that game with me. I'll let you win. I'll let you do a lot more than that, if you want.