The bus rattles through late afternoon traffic. Each stop brings a small jolt that moves through the floor into every seat. A woman sits by the window, briefcase tucked tight against her leg. The glass hums with vibration against her shoulder, but she barely notices. Her eyes rest on the city outside, unfocused, as if she is staring past the buildings and people into a place only she can see.
Inside, it is not quiet. Her chest feels tight. Breath stays shallow and near the top of her lungs. Her jaw holds as if it is trying to keep the whole day from spilling out. A list of work undone collides with errands waiting at home. A message she did not answer. A tone she wishes she had softened. A moment that clings longer than she expected.
If today isn’t the day, remember us when your moment opens.
Buy Me a Coffee
The noise of her thoughts fills every inch of her. She feels suspended somewhere above herself, disconnected from the ground beneath her feet. The bus rocks forward, but her body stays rigid, bracing against something only she can feel.
A sharp brake pulls the bus to the curb. A woman behind her reaches for the rail. A grocery bag rustles near the aisle. Another passenger lets out a soft laugh at something on her phone. The world continues in its own rhythm, yet she remains caught inside the tight loop of her own mind.
She notices how tired she feels, not just in her muscles but in the space beneath her ribs where strain collects. Tired of holding everything. Tired of adjusting her tone. Tired of carrying the day long after it should have ended.
The bus doors open at the next stop. Cool air slips in, carrying the scent of rain on pavement. A woman climbs aboard with an overfilled tote bag. She moves carefully down the aisle and takes the seat across from her, lowering the bag to her lap with a soft thud.
A moment later, the bus hits a pothole. The tote bag slips from her lap, tumbling to the floor. A carton of strawberries slides out and skids toward the aisle. For a heartbeat no one moves.
Before her thoughts can catch up, her body does. She reaches out with her foot, stopping the carton from rolling farther. Then she bends down and picks it up. The plastic is cool in her hands, damp with condensation. She returns it gently.
“Thank you,” the woman says, her voice soft and sincere.
The words reach her in a place her thoughts could not. Something inside loosens, warm and human. She sits back down, and the briefcase against her leg feels more like weight than pressure. The small exchange leaves a quiet imprint, a reminder that connection still lives beneath the noise.
Her breath shifts. She did not notice it changing until now. The simple act of reaching forward brought her back into her body. Her hand still remembers the cool plastic. Her foot remembers the steady floor. Awareness returns gradually, like light finding its way into a dim room.
She presses both feet against the ridged metal floor, feeling heel and toe settle with real contact. The sensation grounds her. It reminds her that she is held by something steady. Not in thought, but in the physical truth beneath her.
She inhales slowly through her nose. The breath reaches her chest rather than stopping at her throat. She pauses for a heartbeat, then exhales in a long, steady stream. Her shoulders follow the release, dropping by a small but meaningful measure.
She looks around the bus. A woman near the front leans against the window with her eyes closed. Another scrolls through her phone with a soft, tired expression. An older woman smooths the top of a shopping bag on her lap, grounding herself through touch. Each detail reminds her that everyone here carries their own weight, their own tenderness, their own private storm.
Another stop passes. Then another. The woman with the tote bag gathers her things and glances back with a small nod before stepping off. The gesture rests warmly inside her, softening the tension she has been holding beneath her ribs.
She turns her attention to her own hands. They rest open now, neither clenched nor curled. She spreads her fingers slightly, feeling the skin stretch gently, the warmth returning to her palms. Her body feels inhabited again, not distant.
Another breath arrives. Then another. The knot inside her loosens with each exhale. The thoughts that once pressed so tightly now feel like passing weather instead of fixed truth. She lets them drift without trying to rewrite or correct them.
At her stop, she presses the cord. The soft chime sounds overhead. She stands and adjusts her briefcase, feeling her weight shift through her legs. The bus slows. The doors open. Cool air greets her, lifting a strand of hair from her cheek.
She steps onto the pavement with more steadiness than she expected. Her breath moves lower. Her shoulders sit easier along her frame. The city hums around her, but she does not feel swallowed by it. The ground beneath her feet feels real again. Present. Solid.
She walks toward home with the same list of responsibilities waiting for her. But she walks differently now. Not from her thoughts alone, but from the part of her that has returned to her own body, one breath at a time.
The Truth Beneath
Returning to your body is not a retreat. It is a remembering. Thoughts may race. The day may press in. But the body stays honest. It shows where emotion lives long before the mind admits it. When you feel your feet on the ground, your breath in your ribs, and the warmth in your own hands, you reconnect with the truth of yourself. This steadiness is not something you chase. It is something you return to, again and again.
Stories written in the quiet hours.
Derek Wolf.
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