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The bus driver is cute.
There, you've fucking thought it, now can you stop thinking about him? But of course you can't, not today.
Aradia is yapping something or the other at you, about The History of Valentine's Day, and you couldn't care less about this stupid commercial joke of a day. And you wouldn't, if it weren't for that fucking guy.
Your best friend's words are a fuzzy drone of background noise from where she's sitting cross-legged on the floor, while you're half hanging off your sofa, surrendering yourself to thoughts of the bus driver.
The bus driver is cute, and you'd like to see him smile.
You noticed him the very first time you took that bus, tried to ignore that you felt drawn to him until you couldn't.
Who even knows what it is about him. You think he must be a hipster, maybe an unpleasant hipster, even though you've never seen him in anything but his work uniform. When it's cold, he wears a black turtleneck under it.
Sometimes, he forgets to frown like someone pissed in his morning coffee, and then he just— Looks really sad.
You've lost count how many times you've wondered why.
He certainly looks striking, with that lighter colored streak in his sleek, combed-back hair, always immaculate. Sitting almost - almost - right in the middle of his forehead, you know the streak's natural because it has never changed, not once. You'd never seen something like that on anyone before.
His thick-rimmed nerd glasses make him look a little owlish, which is adorable and why is that fucking word even in your vocabulary to describe another dude, but one time he must have worn contact lenses and you got to view his features entirely unobstructed by black plastic, and that day it was all over.
You know with absolute certainty that the image of his face will be burned into your memory forever, makes you feel weak at the knees lying down when you retrieve it to turn it over and over in your mind like a treasured keepsake.
Fuck knows if he'd be considered conventionally attractive, not you and you care even less about such things, but he was beautiful to you with glasses on, without them you only got to see just how much.
Yeah. The bus driver is cute.
It's only the understatement of the decade.
It hardly fits into your mind that he even knows you exist.
Yes, he looks at you in his mirror sometimes. You've seen him do it and you've seen the recognition in his face, although you have no fucking idea why he'd ever notice you when there's so many people taking the bus all day. People that must be far more interesting and good-looking than—
Yeah, well, maybe because you're staring at him all the time.
Does that make you a creep, the staring? It certainly makes you a bit pathetic, but you couldn't stop if you tried.
Not like there's much to your life besides ogling bus drivers.
The stop his bus takes you to the same time every Wednesday is the closest to the hospital your older brother is at — in a coma.
A year ago, he was in an accident, and he hasn't woken up since. He might never.
You were never all that close with your brother; you argued about dumb shit sometimes, maybe the odd prank here and there, but most of the time, you each just did your own thing. You never had much in common, besides liking video games - him with his stupid skateboards and stupider memes and his weird, intimidating friends. But then you never made much of an effort to get to know him better, did you.
Visiting him once a week to sit and stare at him for an hour - the doctors keep telling you to talk to him, but you can never bring yourself to do it, it just makes you feel stupid - isn't going to make up for it. It doesn't even alleviate your feelings of guilt. But what else could you do?
In a rare moment of brotherly advice, he did once tell you to stop procrastinating living your life, because you've only got the one. You never forgot that, though you can't claim to have followed it.
Life is short. Once it's over, it's not like you'd be able to regret it. But maybe the years between will feel long enough when they're flavored with the bitter taste of missed opportunities, and do you really want to wake up one day and realize you wasted all your time existing instead of living?
He's not going to miraculously wake up because you got over yourself and asked that guy out.
But if you do and the dude tells you to go fuck yourself, you might regret it for a week or fifty-two. If you don't, ...
It really might be for a lifetime.
You don't dare entertain the idea that—
"Sorry, AA," you say as you get up. "I gotta be somewhere."
Walking to the bus stop, there's more than enough time to get nervous about what you're planning to do, but you're going through with this. No excuses, no running away.
He looks even more miserable today, and you think that No, maybe this is not a good time, maybe you should–
No. If you don't do it now, you'll never do it.
You wish he had a name tag, then you'd at least know his surname, but you guess bus drivers aren't afforded that courtesy.
Why you think that frown is that stupidly attractive on him, you couldn't possibly fathom, what must it be like if he smiled?
You might just die.
Way sooner than you were ready for, your stop is the next and this is it, now or never. With shaky hands, you get out the small notepad you carry around for no reason because you never write anything in it, scribble a hasty Meet me after work? and your phone number, tear off the sheet, fold it in the middle and hope to hell that he'll be able to decipher your shitty handwriting.
Mouth so dry it feels like you could drink the ocean and it wouldn't help, you get up. Your hands are so sweaty and you just hope it won't stain the paper because that would be gross and you're already—
Wipe that stupid nervous grin off your face, God, you'll look even more like a creep, but you can't.
Tap him on the shoulder, slip him the note, and get the fuck out of there.
Pulling the chair closer to your brother's hospital bed, you sit down. For a long moment, you just look at his still form, like you always do, then take a deep breath.
Fucking Friday I'm In Love of all things comes on the hospital radio and you falter. Yeah, you could fall apart.
It is Friday though, not Monday.
"I did something really stupid today," you begin. "You'd laugh your ass off at me if you-" You break off, silent for another long moment. Maybe you can't do this after all.
"So there's this guy I, well met is saying a bit much, we haven't- but anyway, I see him a lot. Have been for a year now. And I kind of— I really like him. Even though we've never said a word to each other. Pretty dumb, huh? But there's just. It's just something about him, you know? He just."
You sigh. This is so dumb and cringe and—
Vulnerable.
"He looks so sad sometimes. And I."
I wish I could give him a reason to forget that sadness.
"I gave him my fucking phone number today. Like on a piece of paper. Asking him out. I mean who fucking does that anymore, right? He probably thinks I'm an idiot, or a creep, or both, and I told myself not to, told myself it's a really shit idea like how it's a shit idea to fall for a guy you don't even know at all. But I did it anyway."
Lightly tapping the blanket with your index finger, you will yourself to say it out loud, as if doing so were somehow physically painful but would make it more likely to happen.
"And uhm. I." Another deep breath you let out in a sigh.
"I really hope he'll call, Mituna."