The Time You Sat Beside Me After Your Name Had Left

I knew something had ended beyond repair when you sat down beside me on the bus and the seat did not dip and no one else seemed to notice. Your coat brushed my arm and the contact arrived a heartbeat late like an echo that had lost its source. The engine rumbled and the windows rattled and you said my name with relief and restraint as if you were unsure it still belonged to you. Grief moved through me before fear and settled in place with practiced ease.

The bus lurched forward and the city slid past in gray streaks of morning. The air smelled of damp coats and metal and old warmth. I kept my eyes on the window afraid that if I looked directly at you the truth would sharpen too fast. Your presence was cool and steady and intimately wrong. I understood without explanation that you were here without being anchored and that whatever love had kept us aligned had already failed at something final.

You had died three weeks earlier in a quiet room overlooking the river. I had learned how to say the past tense carefully and had almost believed it. Now the present rearranged itself around your voice. You asked where we were going and I answered automatically and then stopped because the answer no longer applied. The bus slowed for a stop and people stood and moved through you without noticing. You flinched and then smiled apologetically at me.

We rode in silence until the end of the line. The bus emptied and idled breathing softly. You remained seated looking out at the wet pavement and the pale sky. When I stood you rose with me and for a moment your outline sharpened as if motion helped. Outside the wind carried the smell of rain and the city felt thinner like a place that had learned to make allowances.

We walked without a destination. You stayed close to my right side where your presence felt most consistent. When I crossed a street the sound of traffic dimmed briefly and then returned. Your steps made no sound and I adjusted my pace to match a rhythm that only I could feel. You told me that you had followed the habit of the commute back to me because it was what your body remembered doing. You said habits were stronger than endings.

We stopped by the river where the path curved and the water moved dark and patient. The smell of silt and wet stone rose around us. You leaned on the railing and watched the current with an expression of careful curiosity. When I reached for the metal my hand passed through yours and rested alone. A chill crept up my arm and you pulled back immediately apologizing as if touch were a breach of etiquette.

Days unfolded into a pattern shaped by movement. You appeared most clearly when I was in transit on buses trains sidewalks places where people passed through without staying. Indoors you thinned and grew quiet as if walls demanded more than you could give. We spent hours riding back and forth across the city talking about small things. When the bus stopped you grew uneasy and urged motion again. Love became a series of departures that never arrived.

You told me pieces of it during a long ride across the bridge at dusk. How when you died something about your sense of direction had remained. How you felt pulled along routes you knew even when there was nowhere left to go. You said names were harder. That yours felt loose as if it had been left behind somewhere you could not return to. When I said it aloud you closed your eyes and breathed as if steadying yourself.

The city responded to you in subtle ways. Automatic doors hesitated before opening. Signals flickered. Once the bus driver glanced at the empty seat beside me and frowned. You laughed softly and the sound felt fragile. I realized that keeping you close was requiring constant motion and that motion was thinning you like thread drawn too tight.

The longing sharpened because proximity did not grant permanence. I wanted to sit still with you to share a quiet hour without the pressure of transit. When we tried you faded until only the suggestion of you remained and your voice came distant and strained. You apologized every time and I told you it was fine and felt the lie press against my ribs.

The cost arrived on a rainy evening when the bus stalled under the overpass and we were forced to wait. The engine cut and the lights dimmed. You grew restless and then panicked as minutes stretched. Your outline wavered and your voice scattered. I held my breath and whispered your name and felt it slide past me without catching. When the bus finally started again you reformed shakily and leaned closer than before as if seeking shelter.

After that we avoided stops whenever possible. I missed appointments and let days blur into routes and returns. Friends asked questions and I answered vaguely. My life narrowed to keep you intact and I did not notice until exhaustion settled into my bones. Loving you had become a constant act of motion against rest.

We argued once quietly while standing on a platform as trains roared past. I told you this was not living. You told me stopping felt like falling. The words were swallowed by sound and vibration. Neither of us won. The train arrived and we boarded because it was what we knew how to do.

The realization gathered slowly like a weather change. It came in the way your voice weakened when we slowed. In the way my own reflection in dark windows looked hollow and strained. In the way you began to forget landmarks and relied on me to tell you where we were going. I understood that I was becoming your route and that routes ended.

The final scene unfolded over a long night ride on the last bus. The city was quiet and the windows reflected dim interior light. Only a few passengers slept scattered and unaware. You looked more solid than you had in days as if the continuity of motion lent you strength. The bus hummed steadily and the road unspooled beneath us.

You told me then that if you let yourself stop fully you would disperse into all the paths you had taken and no longer be able to gather yourself. You said it would not hurt. You would simply no longer be singular. You did not ask me to keep riding forever. You trusted me with the choice that was already forming.

I felt the truth move through me slowly and thoroughly. I thought about the seat that did not dip and the name that no longer stayed. I thought about all the ways we had kept moving to avoid an ending. I realized that love was not meant to outrun loss. It was meant to face it and let motion cease.

When the bus reached the depot and the engine idled you looked at me with a calm that felt like surrender. I reached for you knowing what it meant and felt only the cool echo of contact. I told you that loving you had taught me how to keep going but also how to stop. My voice shook and then steadied. You smiled with relief.

The driver cut the engine and the bus went still. In the quiet you softened and thinned and spread like breath released. Your voice said my name one last time and then there was only space and the smell of rain and oil. I stayed seated until the lights came on and the night returned to ordinary scale.

Now I ride the bus alone. I choose routes without purpose and let them end. Sometimes when the engine hums just right I feel a familiar ease beside me and then it passes. Love did not stay seated. It learned how to arrive and depart without needing a destination. I learned how to stand up and walk the rest of the way on my own.