The bus stop offered little respite from the unrelenting midday heat. The air shimmered against the pavement, thick and stifling, as if the entire city had been wrapped in an invisible furnace. Sweat trickled down my temple, gathering at my jawline before dripping onto the stiff collar of my uniform.
People bustled past, their movements brisk, purposeful. Occasionally, a gaze would linger on me—some curious, some indifferent, but all acknowledging my presence. Was it the uniform? The pristine fabric, pressed to perfection, stood out sharply against the casual wear of the locals. Or was it my foreign features, a stark contrast to the sea of familiar faces?
A small child, no older than five, paused before me. Wide, inquisitive eyes traced the lines of my face, then lowered to the unfamiliar fabric of my blazer. Tentatively, their tiny fingers reached out, brushing against the material.
"Chiyo," a woman's voice cut through the moment, sharp and reprimanding.
The child flinched and scurried back to their mother, who cast me a wary glance before leading her away.
I exhaled, feeling an uncomfortable knot settle in my chest. Miss Sato warned me about the stares, about how foreigners were often an oddity in this part of the city. But knowing and experiencing were two very different things.
The bus rumbled into view, a behemoth of metal and glass screeching to a halt. The doors hissed open, and a wave of chilled air rushed out, offering momentary relief from the sweltering heat. I stepped inside, scanning my surroundings as I made my way toward the back.
Students, businessmen, elderly women—each absorbed in their own world. A few students wore the same uniform as mine, their faces a mix of anticipation and nerves. Some whispered in hushed tones, exchanging first-day anxieties.
The bus jolted forward. The motion sent a brief wave of dizziness through me, a stark reminder of how disorienting this new environment was.
Then, a shift in the air.
An elderly woman, frail and hunched, clutched the pole near the entrance. The lines on her face spoke of time, wisdom, and exhaustion. Every seat was occupied. Her searching gaze flickered from face to face—hopeful, then resigned.
A dispute broke out near the front.
A young woman, her voice sharp with indignation, glared at a blonde-haired student lounging in a priority seat. His uniform was worn in a standard style, with a careless arrogance hanging around him. His expression, one of amused disdain.
"You should offer your seat to the elderly," the woman snapped, arms crossed.
The blonde smirked, a slow, lazy curve of his lips. "Why should I? I was here first. The bus doesn't enforce it as a law. So, tell me, why should I move?"
"It's common decency," a female office worker chimed in, frowning. "Basic human courtesy."
His smirk widened. "Ah, so morality is dictated by obligation, then? If it's common, why isn't anyone else offering?" He gestured subtly to the rest of the passengers, who either avoided eye contact or feigned ignorance.
The argument escalated, drawing more attention. The woman's reasoning was sound, but the blonde's deliberate provocation was unsettling.
I watched in silence, unmoved.
Morally, she was right. Logically, he had a point. Or maybe he was just an asshole.
Then, something shifted again.
A stare.
Not the fleeting, curious glances I had grown accustomed to, but something heavier—sharper.
I turned my head slightly, locking eyes with a pair of golden irises across the aisle. The owner, a young man with chestnut brown hair, quickly averted his gaze.
Suspicion flickered in my mind, but I let it go.
The bus came to a screeching halt. Students began to disembark, their chatter spilling into the open air. I adjusted my bag, preparing to leave.
Then—another gaze.
This time, it was her.
Fiery red eyes burned into me, a stark contrast to the book she had been engrossed in moments earlier.
She stepped closer. The air around her was heavy, carrying something unspoken.
"Why didn't you offer your seat?" she asked, her voice low, edged with something dangerous.
I blinked. "I don't like attracting attention," I admitted, keeping my tone even. "And it was a hassle."
Her gaze didn't waver. Measuring. Calculating.
"So, you live by the philosophy of letting sleeping dogs lie?"
A statement, not a question.
I nodded.
Her lips curled into something resembling disdain. "Then I don't want to be associated with people like you."
With that, she turned away, disappearing into the crowd.
I watched her go, the weight of her words settling over me.
Something about them didn't sit right.