He stopped trying to understand when the bus would end.
Because at some point, the idea of "arrival" no longer felt real.
The road outside had stopped making sense a long time ago. The city was gone. The streetlights were gone. Even the feeling of direction had slowly dissolved into something meaningless.
There was only movement.
Forward.
Without purpose.
⸻
He sat very still in the last seat.
Not because he felt calm.
But because he no longer knew what else to do.
⸻
The passengers around him were no longer something he could clearly define.
Sometimes they were there.
Sometimes they weren't.
Sometimes they felt closer than they should be.
⸻
And she was still beside him.
Always.
Not always in the same way.
But always there.
⸻
He didn't turn anymore.
He already knew what he would see.
Or what he wouldn't.
⸻
The bus passed another stop.
No one got on.
No one got off.
There was no difference between stations anymore.
⸻
Then the whisper returned.
But this time, it was not fragmented.
Not distant.
Not uncertain.
⸻
It was close.
Warm.
Almost gentle.
⸻
"Stay with me."
⸻
He froze.
Slowly, his head turned.
⸻
She was there.
Right beside him.
Closer than ever before.
Black hair falling forward.
Eyes empty but fixed on him.
⸻
And then she smiled.
⸻
Not a normal smile.
Something too slow.
Too aware.
⸻
"Stay with me," she whispered again.
And again.
And again.
⸻
The words repeated.
Not stopping.
Not changing.
Like a loop that had no beginning and no end.
⸻
"Stay with me."
"Stay with me."
"Stay with me."
⸻
Her voice softened into something almost like laughter.
Not loud.
Not human.
But endless.
⸻
He felt something inside him collapse.
Not fear anymore.
Something heavier.
Something final.
⸻
Because now he understood.
There was no stop.
Not for the bus.
Not for the road.
Not for anything.
⸻
The bus kept moving.
But it was no longer going anywhere.
⸻
And her voice continued beside him.
Soft.
Repeating.
Laughing.
Never stopping.
⸻
And he did not move again.
Not even when he realized—
there had never been a destination to escape to.