Every Friday, a woman in a wedding dress sat alone at the same bus stop, crying beneath a flickering streetlight while the neighborhood pretended not to notice her. The night I finally sat beside her, she whispered something that made me realize she wasn’t heartbroken — she was afraid.
The evenings in my neighborhood always felt heavier than the mornings, especially on Fridays when the sun bled orange across the rooftops, and the air went still.
From my third-floor window, I could see the bus stop across the street, a small bench under a flickering lamp where strangers came and went without ever really looking at each other. I worked late most Fridays as a graphic designer, hunched over my laptop, and that window was my only company.
That was how I first noticed her…
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