I missed the bus.
I wasn’t running late.
Just had an errand,
something small
but enough to take me out of the house.
It was a Thursday.
Late afternoon.
Fair weather.
The kind of day where nothing feels urgent
but everything feels slightly wrong.
The bus turned the corner
without even a pause.
I didn’t wave.
Didn’t curse.
Just stood there,
smelling grass freshly cut,
smoke from passing cars,
dust biting with every breeze.
I didn’t check the time.
I just walked.
To the next stop,
because what else was there to do?
A few other people were walking, too.
That made it easier somehow—
to not be the only one
with nowhere exact to be
but still needing to get there.
When the next bus came,
it didn’t stop either.
Different driver, same indifference.
And I just stood there,
feeling dumb.
Like I had tried
but still ended up where I began.
So I kept walking.
Not because I had to anymore.
Just because walking felt better
than waiting to be let down again.
I passed a grocery store.
Didn’t go in.
Kept going.
Home wasn’t that far.
Maybe thirty minutes.
Long enough to feel it in my legs,
short enough to not regret it.
I was sore.
I won’t lie.
Feet complaining,
shirt sticking,
mind circling.
But when I got home,
I felt something like peace.
Not pride.
Just peace.
Because I didn’t get carried.
Didn’t stay stuck.
Didn’t wait for the next chance to show up.
I moved.
Even when it was pointless.
Even when it hurt.
And maybe life’s like that.
Sometimes the bus doesn’t see you.
Sometimes it doesn’t stop twice.
Sometimes the only way forward
is your own two feet
on a dusty, unremarkable sidewalk,
next to strangers
also tired,
also walking.
And that’s enough.
That’s already something.