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There’s something about the bus stop at this time of the day—something about the loneliness, about the cloud of mist to her senses, something about the colour of the world to her senses, her sight, touch, smell—
Something about the stars overhead, their brightness lost to the fluorescents of the city— so undeniably alive and numbing at this time of the night—their twinkle lost to the rhythm of traffic, gone but still too present as the traffic lights dance, change—to red, to green, to yellow—to red, to green, to yellow—to red, to green—
To yellow, to red again.
3:30am, Heejin’s lessons have just finished maybe ten, maybe sixty, maybe twenty, minutes ago, and the way home is shrouded in shades of grey, of white, of mist—
The night bus is still going—the night bus has passed her by already, once, twice, thrice—the night bus stops with the light turned to green, to yellow, to red—
But Heejin doesn’t stand up, and Heejin only waits—
What for, she doesn’t know— and then the traffic light goes to green, and then the bus is gone, and then it’s back to yellow, to red, to green—
The bus stops again, time ticks by, wind bites at her arms, her face—
Someone gets off the bus, light steps a waterfall that descends—someone gets off and steps into the stop, all pretty colours and pretty sundress that clashes with the night— shades of yellow and pale orange and pink—shades that clash with bright strawberry red of the stranger’s coat— click clack of her heels against pavement like the sound of rain.
And the bus is still, and Heejin should get on—go nowhere, go home—but the sundress twirls under moonlight with every step and turn, and there’s the dust of magic in every step, and then the light turns to yellow, to red, to green, yellow, red—
Heejin should go home—the sundress has a pattern of sunflowers, of magic—the sundress is a garden of beauty, of yellow and orange and pink—the sundress is a garden of beauty, all the way up and lost to the coat and strawberry red hair.
The traffic light to green again, and the bus has left, has come, has left—and Heejin’s still sitting at the bus stop, and the stranger’s sitting down, too, and the night is still wet, and the bench is still cold with mist, with dew, with life—
Orange heels tip-tap in quiet melody—a pretty voice to Heejin’s senses—a song of loss and a song of wonder—pretty hums to the music of the night and pretty pretty moonlight.
Heejin hums to the night—picks up the melody to make her own, tunes out a harmony, a moment, a breath—
Another bus, neither of them moves—the mist envelops, dances, sings—a thin blanket under dimmed streetlights, over the low hum of motors, of nothing, of life, the city—
April means it’s cold, windy—April means there’s water to their lungs, to their senses, to the wind—April means biting cold in gusts of wind, air currents that go somewhere, go nowhere, get lost—
Heejin goes off beat, off tune—a shiver with a gust of wind, a whispered breath as her hands tense, relax, restart—
“Are you cold?” Pretty red coat, pretty red lips—
“A little” with a little laugh, an awkward smile to the bench, to the floor—
Sweatpants, t-shirt—jacket forgotten at the dance studio and head in disarray, head in the clouds, lost in the mist— The wind bites past soft cotton, defenses turned to nothing as it all bites and sticks to sweat, to mist, to fears—
“Aren’t you?” Heejin asks, back to Earth, to wonder, to cold—the stranger gives her a smile, a shrug.
“Not really” strawberry red strands that fall down her back, her shoulders—flowers in uneven patterns, flowers in pretty hair—“I can give you my coat, if you want?”
“Won’t you be cold, then?” Not a no, not a yes—Heejin doesn’t want to say no, Heejin doesn’t want to head home—
“I won’t” a light-hearted shrug, rainfall of footsteps as strawberry red stands up, smiles, turns— “don’t worry”
And a laugh—sweet, bright, pretty—
“I won’t be able to give it back, though” and there’s wind, and there’s mist—and there’s short sleeves under red and pink that ruffle with a light giggle, a skip, a brighter smile, still—Heejin frowns, something like a pout, hands to the bench, sneakers to a lost beat, melody, moment— “I’m about to go home, anyway, it’s fine—”
“I’m about to go home too, so” Strawberry red off her shoulders, her sleeves—careful hands as she steps towards Heejin, smile brighter than moonlight and pretty brown eyes— “If you take this bus tomorrow, you can give it back”
“At 4am?” Heejin lets herself stand, pushes herself up—dusts off her hands on her pants, her shirt—rings to cloth and cold cold air.
“Maybe at three, actually?” And the stranger laughs, bubbly like she has been, as she lets her coat fall on Heejin’s arms, shoulders—and Heejin finishes slipping the coat on, feels warmth to her senses, her thoughts— sleeves soft on her hands, on tired thoughts, aching joints and world— feels warmth on red and peach pink, colourful contrast to faded and muted practice clothes. “I’ll be here at three, but I can try to be at four, too”
“For your coat?” and the stranger’s smile is sweet kindness, garden of beauty—
“For my coat” a hum, a playful melody—raindrops as she walks, falls back to the cold bench— “For you, maybe?”
“Won’t you be tired?” Magic dust to Heejin’s cheeks, to stuttered breathing—magic dust out in a laugh, a noise, a breath— “Or, like, cold”
“Tomorrow might be warmer” and Heejin sits again, too, hands to her side, eyes to pretty brown— “Or I get to see you, and that’s already nicer” and the stranger’s eyes to Heejin’s, to the world, to a smile—
“Is it?” and red hair flutters in the wind with a nod—still bright, still pretty— “Can I get your name?” Tomorrow, today, tomorrow—when time isn’t real, when time isn’t there—when nothing’s to something and Heejin lays bare, fears and thoughts swallowed to the mist, the night, the light, the red, the green, the yellow—
And the traffic light flickers—and the traffic light stops—and the traffic light’s red—
“Jiwoo” bright, pretty, cute— cute voice to Heejin’s senses and a brush of their hands, their breaths to the wind, the streets, the world—the slumbering city that won’t stop walking, turning, breathing— “Yours?”
“Heejin” and another brush of warmth, of boldness, of something—and it’s four, it’s three, it’s none—and time has and has gone, and the streetlights turn to night, to white, to yellow—and the traffic light’s to green, to yellow, to red, to green— “I like your voice”
Jiwoo blinks—Heejin breathes, stutters, turns, thinks—
“It’s really pretty, your melody” your voice, your colour, you— and Jiwoo smiles again, all kindness, all pretty—
“Yours is, too” and a shy little laugh, smile—the tap tap of heels and raindrops against the cement, the light, the city— “Thank you”
“Same to you” and Heejin smiles, and Heejin laughs—and her thoughts fade with the mist, and the streetlights are back to green, to yellow—
Another bus, the mechanical noise of its doors, its wheels—Heejin taps at her pocket, her wallet, herself—
“See you tomorrow?” and her bus card weighs at her fingertips—and her breathing leaves with the wind, the mist, the night—
“See you tomorrow” and a wave, a smile, a hum—and the raindrops of melody as Heejin walks to the bus, leave the stop, leaves the mist and Jiwoo and her strawberry red—
She waves back from the window, and Heejin goes home.