Parth Varsani

I wait under the yellow streetlight
with my hands deep in my pockets,
watching cars pass like fast thoughts
that do not belong to me.

The night is cold
but not angry.
It just sits there quietly,
like it knows everybody's secrets
and has learned not to speak.

A paper cup rolls across the sidewalk.
Somewhere far off,
a siren cuts through the dark
and then disappears.
Everything in this town
feels awake and half-asleep
at the same time.

I think about all the lives
behind lit apartment windows—
someone washing dishes,
someone arguing,
someone laughing too loud,
someone trying not to cry.

The bus is late again.
Nobody complains.
A man in work boots checks his phone,
a girl with headphones stares at nothing,
and I stand there
pretending I am only waiting for a ride
and not for my whole life
to begin.

Sometimes it feels like that,
like the world is moving,
and I am stuck at the stop,
watching it leave without me.
But then the wind shifts,
and I can smell rain coming,
fresh and clean,
like something is about to change.

The bus finally arrives
with a tired groan,
doors opening like a second chance.
We all step in
without saying a word,
carrying our small invisible wars.

I take a seat by the window
and watch the streetlight fade behind me.
For a second,
my reflection in the glass
looks older,
like somebody who knows
where he is going.

Maybe none of us do.
Maybe we are all just riding forward,
hoping the next stop
feels more like home
than the last one did.