The last seat on the bus

Maya Reyes had three rules she lived by: never skip breakfast, always carry an umbrella even when the sky was blue, and never — under any circumstances — look at the last seat on the bus.

The first two rules were easy. The third one had become a daily act of willpower she'd been practicing for exactly ninety-three days.

She knew this because she'd started counting the day she first noticed him.

It was a rainy Monday in August. She'd been running late, her coffee still half-made, her bag barely zipped. She had thrown herself onto the bus just as the doors were closing, heart hammering, and collapsed into the first available seat. She'd been catching her breath when she saw him — a boy in the last seat, one knee propped against the seat in front of him, a dog-eared paperback open in his hands, his lips moving faintly as he read.

He had dark, messy hair that looked like it had been argued with and lost. He wore a grey hoodie that was too big for him, the sleeves slightly frayed at the cuffs. And there was something about the way he read — so completely absorbed, so fully present in whatever world those pages contained — that made Maya feel oddly envious of a book.

She'd looked away quickly. She hadn't looked back.

But the next day, he was there again. And the day after that. And the day after that.

And so she made the rule. Because some things were safer left alone, like unexploded feelings and the last seat on the bus.

✦ ✦ ✦

Today was a Tuesday in November, and Maya was running late again. She had a thermos of coffee in one hand and her tote bag strap slipping off her shoulder. She made it onto the bus with approximately one second to spare.

She settled into her usual spot — fourth row, window seat — and exhaled. Safe. She arranged her things, tucked her earphones in, and pressed play on her playlist. Rain tapped against the glass. The bus lurched forward.

Everything was fine.

And then the bus hit a pothole.

Maya's thermos tilted. She grabbed for it — too late. The lid, which she had been meaning to replace for two weeks because it never clicked properly, popped open. A wave of coffee arced through the air with what felt like slow-motion cruelty.

There was a sound. A quiet, startled sound.

Maya turned around.

The boy from the last seat was sitting right behind her.

She stared. He stared. A dark stain spread across the front of his grey hoodie.

"Oh my God," she breathed. "I am so sorry — here —" She was already rummaging through her bag with one hand, pulling out a small packet of tissues she kept for emergencies. This qualified.

He looked down at the stain, then back up at her, and to her complete bewilderment, the corner of his mouth curved.

"It's okay," he said. His voice was low and unhurried, like someone who had never been in a rush in his life. "It's actually my second coffee today. I think I needed this one externally."

A laugh escaped her before she could swallow it down. She pressed her lips together, but it was too late. Her eyes met his, and something passed between them — something small and warm and a little bit dangerous.

"I'm still really sorry," she managed. "About your hoodie."

"It's survived worse," he said, accepting the tissues with a quiet thank you. He dabbed at the stain with a patience that somehow made her feel worse. "I'm Daniel, by the way."

"Maya."

He repeated her name once, softly, like he was setting it somewhere he'd remember. Then he looked at her — really looked at her — in a way that made her stomach do something complicated.

"You always sit in the fourth row," he said.

She blinked. "You noticed that?"

He glanced away, something almost shy crossing his features. "I notice a lot of things. Sorry — that probably sounds strange."

Maya looked at him for a moment. The rain was still falling outside. The bus was warm. And she thought about ninety-three days of deliberately not looking at the last seat.

"No," she said quietly. "It sounds like something someone does when they like a person."

The words came out before she could think about them. She felt her face go warm.

But Daniel didn't look away. He met her eyes steadily, and for the first time in ninety-three days, Maya looked at him — really looked — and didn't look away.

"Yeah," he said, soft as the rain. "I think that's exactly what it is."

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