Almost

I met him that evening, and the rain refused to stop. It was that kind of rain that soaked your patience and even your umbrellas. I was standing at the already crowded bus stop, while he stood a little apart, almost at the edge, holding a book against his chest as if it might dissolve with the wind. That was the first thing I noticed before his face.

“You can stand here,” I said, shifting my bag. “You’re still getting wet.”

He smiled, gratefully, without a word, and stepped closer. We all sat in silence listening as the rain drummed hard on the metal roof of the bus stop. I was wondering why the bus heading my route was taking too long to appear. I watched as a bus pulled up before us. But it wasn't going my way.

Like it was destiny, every other person at the bus stop stepped in, leaving just the two of us in the silence. Coincidentally, we were headed the same way.

It took a long time before our bus finally arrived, and we got on. I sat just a seat away from him. He buried his eyes in his book all through the journey home.

And just like that, we met more often at that bus stop every evening after that. Sometimes we spoke. Sometimes we didn’t. Gradually, we learned about each other in small pieces, like how I learnt that he works at a printing press and how he learnt that I had the habit of counting passing cars. Also, he always folded the corner of whatever page he was on. We never talked about anything important. Not really. Just around things like weather, work, and the country. Yet, our conversations felt safe, though temporary. Like the rain.

I still remember the first evening, he asked my name. I told him. I loved how he said it slowly, as if testing how it felt in his mouth. It was the first time someone ever said my name that way. That was when I realized that right from the first day, something soft sat between us. I was reluctant to call it what it was, but it felt good.

Until one night, he walked me to my door.

We stood before my apartment longer than necessary. I wanted to invite him in, but I was too scared it might ruin things. He stood there looking at me with his eyes that felt like they could pierce my soul. Then he said,

“I enjoy this,” he said. “Us. Standing, riding home together.”

I nodded with the smile of a lady who's been hypnotized. “Me too.”

He hesitated. I thought he might say more. I thought I might, too. I thought he might lean in for our lips to touch. But my phone rang, breaking the moment, and the moment folded in on itself.

I stared at my phone at him. I wanted him to ignore the call and continue,

“Tomorrow,” he said. As if the phone ringing was his clue to leave.

I nodded and watched him as he turned and left.

But tomorrow didn’t come.

All through the next week, I waited alone at the bus stop. To jinx it all, the rail fell heavily every day. I told myself he was busy. I told myself I hadn't meant as much to him. I told myself many things just to find peace.

Weeks passed. Then months. And every day it hurt like it was the first day. To help myself, I stopped taking the bus.

Years passed, and I moved on.

Not until I bumped into him in a bookstore. He was standing near the counter. He looked different this time. Older. Softer. And more handsome. He still folded his pages.

I almost turned away to avoid him seeing me. Instead, he called out my name.

I froze and turned. I tried to speak but failed.

“My God! It's really you! You know I stopped by the bus stop every day for the past few months,” he said. “I wondered if you still took the bus,” he asked Luke. Nothing had happened. Like he didn't just disappear to appear again out of the blue. Like he wasn't the one who stopped taking the bus.

I faked a smile. “I don’t,” I replied. "Anymore."

He nodded. Outside, rain began to fall again.

He looked at the window, then at me, then at an empty chair. "Sit? I feel like I owe you an explanation."

I looked at him; at least he was still concerned.

I followed him to the seat.

Then he cleared his throat and said. “I should have said something,” he said. Not urgently. Just honestly.

I looked at him again. My eyes lit up. My heart fluttered. He was about to say it. How am I still in love with a man from the bus stop after so many years of disappearing? But I didn't care as long as it was happening.

“So should I,” I said almost immediately.

“I’m married,” he added gently.

“I know,” I said, though I didn’t. Somehow, it made its way out of my mouth before I could realize that it wasn't what I expected to hear. I had expected him to say he loved me and was sorry, and he missed me; instead, he was married.

"How did you....?"

"I knew it was too obvious." I lied, trying hard to hide my pain.

"Thank God." He paused. "When I realized something was brewing between us, I had to leave before I would cheat on my wife."

I nodded. Another word meant tears.

I smiled. We smiled. The kind of smile that holds both loss and gratitude. Then I stood up and said goodbye, properly this time. I didn't want to bow to my feelings and cry before him.

Then I stepped outside, into the rain-soaked streets. I didn’t mind if it soaked my clothes. Some things are/were not meant to happen. Some things are meant to be felt once, deeply, and remembered without regret.

I let the rain hide my tears. I wondered how I was going to remember him now.