The Last Bus Home

The rain was unapologetic that evening — slapping against the windows of the Karachi city bus like impatient fingers. I sat by the back window, headphones in, the world drowned in a sad old Mehdi Hassan ghazal that had nothing to do with love, yet everything to do with loneliness. The number 7C bus always smelled of damp metal, faded sweat, and cheap coconut oil, but that night, it carried something else. Something different.

She entered at Nazimabad stop.

A girl. No more than twenty. Modest shawl, jhola bag, soaked sandals. She looked unsure whether she should even get on the bus, as if waiting for something — or someone — else. But then, she stepped in. And everything changed.

She scanned the packed bus, eyes halting on the only empty seat — next to me. I shifted, pretending to be indifferent, but curiosity tugged at me like an impatient child.

She sat down, her shawl dripping onto the floor.

We sat in silence for three stops. Four. Then, as the bus jerked to a sudden halt near Gurumandir, she broke the silence.

“You always take this bus?”

I removed one earbud, slightly startled.

“Almost every day,” I replied, “You?”

She smiled. “First time. I missed the university shuttle.”

Something about her tone made me believe she had missed more than just a shuttle. Her smile was warm, but her eyes? Exhausted. The kind of tired that sleep can’t cure.

She looked out the window. “Do you think people can run from who they are?”

I blinked.

“What?”

She turned to me again. “Sorry. That was random. Just… ignore me.”

But how could I?

“No, wait,” I said, “What makes you ask that?”

She exhaled, her breath fogging the window. Her fingers absently traced a heart on the fog, then wiped it away.

“My father wants me to marry my cousin. I want to become a writer.”

The irony punched me. I, too, dreamed of writing — secretly scribbled poetry on receipts and napkins. I, too, had a father with plans that had nothing to do with what lived in my heart.

“I think,” I said carefully, “people don’t run from who they are. They run toward who they might become.”

She looked at me, really looked.

“I wish I could believe that.”

The bus rumbled forward again. Life, too, seemed to move with it.

We talked the rest of the ride. About books. About abandoned dreams. About how fear wears many costumes — sometimes honor, sometimes obedience. She told me her name was Areeba. I told her mine was Farhan. We laughed at the coincidence that both our names meant happiness, though neither of us felt particularly joyful.

When her stop arrived, she stood, paused, and looked back.

“Thank you, Farhan. For this… this space. This conversation.”

“Maybe I’ll see you again?” I asked, trying to sound casual.

She smiled, eyes soft.

“Maybe. Or maybe this is one of those stories you never finish — just remember.”

And then she was gone.

The rain had stopped. I looked out the window, watching her fade into the night like a poem half-written, a chapter unfinished. But somehow, complete in its own way.

That night, I didn’t just take the last bus home. I took a detour into someone’s world, and let someone walk a few steps into mine.