The bus doors folded open with a tired hiss, and a small group of us stepped inside. Warm air, thick with the smell of wet coats and old fabric, announced itself around the interior.
A few empty seats remained scattered throughout the bus. Normally that meant people would sit everywhere except near me. It had become somewhat of a routine over the years—one I stopped questioning a long time ago. Simply the norm for my commute to work.
Yet today was… different.
After paying the fare, I stepped down the aisle and took a seat near the middle. My hands rested loosely on my knees while my eyes wandered around the bus out of habit.
And for the first time, people weren't avoiding my gaze.
A man across the aisle looked up briefly when I glanced his way. Instead of quickly looking down like most people usually did, he simply nodded faintly before returning to his phone.
The reaction caught me off guard.
My eyes moved again.
Another passenger met my glance for a second longer than expected before looking away casually. No discomfort. No pretending I wasn't there.
Strange.
Usually there was an invisible bubble around me on public transport. Empty seats on both sides, people choosing to stand rather than sit nearby — much less next to me.
The bus lurched forward and began making its way through the not—so—busy midday traffic. Most people were already at work by now, leaving the streets strangely hollow
At first, it didn't really cross my mind. The seat beside me remained empty, avoided, just as it always had. Everything seemed normal.
That was, until the next stop.
The bus slowed with a soft hiss of its brakes and a few passengers stepped on. Moments later, a gentle voice interrupted my thoughts.
"Excuse me, young man."
The words took a second to register.
Looking up, I saw an elderly woman standing beside my seat, one hand resting lightly on the metal pole for balance. A small, polite smile softened the lines on her face.
"Is this seat taken?"
For a second I simply stared at her.
This simple question felt almost absurd to someone like me, someone who was never prepared for social interaction of any kind. Ever.
Did she want me to move? Was this seat reserved for elderly passengers only? Had I somehow taken the wrong place without noticing?
My eyes looked around in confusion.
"Uhm…" The word stumbled out as I straightened slightly, swallowing. "Apologies, I— I didn't mean to take your seat."
The woman blinked, her smile faltering just a little as if she hadn't expected that response.
"Oh— no, dear, that's not—" she began gently, lifting a hand.
However there was already a heat crawling up the back of my neck, beginning at the base of my spine and spreading upward. The same feeling you get when you realize you've said something wrong in front of a room full of people, or try to make a joke in a moment where no one understands it — that slow creeping sense that something has gone wrong, tightening your chest little by little until even breathing feels slightly out of place.
Anxiety.
Of course. Of course I had done something wrong again. Even something as simple as sitting on a bus seat had turned into an awkward exchange. My chest tightened with said suffocating pressure, a feeling I was far too familiar with by now. Breathing grew slightly heavier with every second, while small beads of sweat began forming along the palms of my hands.
Why couldn't I just behave like a normal person?
"It's alright," the woman tried again, her voice soft. "I was only asking if the seat was—"
"It's fine," I muttered quickly.
Before she could finish the sentence, I pushed myself up from the seat. The bus swayed slightly as I stepped aside, leaving both seats empty for her. She looked a little surprised, as if the situation had somehow grown larger than she had intended.
"I really didn't mean—" she began again.
But I was already moving toward the back of the bus.
It looked less like fleeing if you did it calmly, which is why I tried to stay as composed as possible, not letting anyone see my sweating palms, weak knees, or trembling hands. Just another passenger changing seats. Nothing strange about that. Nothing worth noticing.
The farther I moved down the aisle, the easier it became to breathe again, the tightness in my chest loosening with every step. By the time I reached the last row and sat down, the worst of it had already begun to fade.
Sitting there felt safer somehow, far enough away from everyone else that no one would try to talk to me again. The last row being empty helped. My shoulders slowly relaxed as the bus kept moving, the steady rumble of the road helping the tension leave my chest little by little.
Whatever strange feeling had been lingering in the back of my mind earlier—the sense that something about the morning, about me, was slightly off—disappeared beneath the crushing weight of embarrassment.
Some things never changed. The way I watched myself fall apart and did nothing. The disgust that followed. They were always within me.
I leaned slightly back against the window just as the first drops of rain began tapping softly against the glass.
At first it were only a few. Each one tapped on the window and disappeared. Then more came.
Thin streaks began to form across the window in front of me, racing one another to see who would reach the sill first. Some ran faster, some lagged behind, catching up, merging, growing into something larger as they fell. One pulled ahead. Another slowed, swallowed by the one behind. It meant nothing, and yet I couldn't look away. There was something about watching raindrops that felt calming. Soothing.
Here I was, sitting and watching the raindrops fall, my mind drifting elsewhere, when for some reason the rain… it started to feel oddly familiar. Not just the sight, but the weight of it, the sound, how it tapped against the glass as I leaned on the window. As if I had felt rain like this before.
Deep in the back of my mind, fragments of the morning surged—the reporter's voice, talking about heavy rainfall, the first of the Christmas season, clouds building over Paris, and how, unfortunately, it wasn't snow.
But I could have sworn it had rained yesterday. I was certain of it.
When I tried to recall the memory, it was fuzzy, blurred at the edges. Like a dream locked behind a door I couldn't open. Right then a pressure made itself way at the back of my head, making thinking alone feel heavy. The harder I tried to remember, the more it slipped away, pulled just out of reach. Still, deep down, I knew it had rained.
Or did it?
Had it truly been just a dream?
Is this what they call déjà vu? I didn't want to think too much about it—the longer I focused, the heavier the ache pressed at the back of my head. I let the headache settle in and watched the rain run down the window.
Then again… I must have simply dreamt it. It didn't matter. I couldn't be bothered to think too much today, after all that had happened.
Leaning my forehead against the cold, rainy window of the bus to cool down, I noticed the world outside moving on. Around ten minutes had passed, ten more to go.
People on the sidewalks were huddled under shop tents, putting up colorful posters all along the block. At first, I barely noticed them, but as I focused, I realized the posters weren't just in front of me—they stretched farther, past every corner my eyes could reach. They seemed to multiply on their own, clustering along the streets, winding toward where the Théâtre des Nouvelle Arts stood, as if guiding the way. As the bus moved forward, the line of them stretched on, almost endlessly along the street, a river of vibrant color flowing past shopfronts and awnings. The street itself unraveled beneath me, as though I was looking into a kaleidoscope. Midway down, to the right, the theater rose above the surrounding buildings, its dome clearly visible through the haze of rain.
Wasn't there something happening soon?
That single thought etched itself to the back of my mind.
And to my luck, there was something happening soon.
Very soon.
Not only on the streets.
But to me only.