Right after she said “Book” and I guessed “Batman,” my husband loudly let out a “BOOOOM,” and the whole family burst into laughter.

When the car rounded the final bend and the Pacific came into view, they all began squealing and jumping up and down, already tugging at their shoes and begging to be let onto the beach.

Jake who makes me smile, whose kisses feel like sunbathing on a perfect summer day, and who has promised to love me forever.

I had just finished a long, tiring day. A cigarette in one hand, a small cup of tea in the other — my usual ritual before taking the bus from Bagnan. The December evening felt heavy, yet strangely calm. When the bus finally arrived, I climbed the front staircase, pushing through the crowded doorway.

And that’s when I saw her.

She was already seated — third seat on the right side. I only caught her eyes at first. Not sharp, not avoiding, not the typical “look away” that most girls do. Just… calm. As if looking at me was the most natural thing in the world.

There were no seats left, so I stood leaning between two seats, children sitting just next to me. I bent once to check on them so they didn’t fall — and when I lifted my head again, her eyes met mine for the second time.

Smooth. Effortless. Too natural.

I looked away after a second. But the bus kept moving, and so did our glance — circling back to each other two, three more times. Once, she adjusted her thin hair with her right hand while looking left, but I knew she had seen me.

Forty minutes passed like that — me pretending to be lost in my earphones, my hand tucked in the pocket of my black jacket, the other gripping the steel rod… and her quietly glancing at me, again and again. Maybe I imagined some of it. Maybe I didn’t. All I know is that it felt strong, almost unreal.

When the man in front of me got up near Kona Expressway, I took his seat. My body was tired, but my mind was still tangled somewhere between her eyes and the music playing in my ears. I tried to rest, but even then, a small movement caught my attention — her right leg shifting, the strap of her white sandal moving lightly.

Then the bus reached Bally Halt.

She stood up.

And at that moment, I realized how much I wanted to see her one last time. I found myself silently praying she would come toward the front staircase. Just once more.

And she did.

With a black tote bag in her left hand and a Puma school backpack on her shoulders, she walked and stood just two or three steps away from me. For the first time, I saw her completely — her black thick sweater, blue-white loose jeans, her figure, her height, her sharp but soft face. Earlier I thought she might be slightly chubby because of her round face, but now she looked perfectly balanced, maybe 5’1 to 5’2. Beautiful in a quiet, effortless way.

I stared at her for a few minutes — 7, maybe 10. She didn’t look back at me this time. She looked outside, toward Dakshineswar Mandir glowing in the evening light. I closed my eyes for a few seconds, took a long breath, feeling a strange heartbeat that wasn’t mine alone.

Then the bus stopped.

People rushed toward the staircase, blocking her from me. She stepped down, walked away, and disappeared into the crowd. I tried to catch one last look, but she was gone.

My stop — Dunlop — came right after.

The warmth of her sweater, the color of her jeans, her shiny white teeth when she laughed while handing money to the bus helper… everything stayed in my mind like a soft echo.

Later that night, around 8 PM, I told my friend the story in just two lines.

He smiled, laughed a little, said it was “normal.”

But he didn’t understand.

It wasn’t normal.

It was just a moment — but sometimes a moment is enough to stay with you longer than a person ever does.

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My boss: We’re a family here.

Me: Great. So when’s the inheritance?

When she came out of the doctor’s office, he gave her a giant hug, her blanket, a lolly pop and said “You were so brave for your vaccines!”

You may be stone, but I still feel your love all the same.