The Slow Wait

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The bus stop has no bench, just a cracked stretch of pavement where the curb slopes unevenly into the street. Heat shimmers off the asphalt, pressing down on the small crowd. A woman checks her watch, sighing loud enough to be heard. A teenager shifts from foot to foot, restless. No one speaks.

The bus is late. The crowd sways in quiet impatience, adjusting bags and shifting weight. A step in any direction requires calculation: how long to stand, how to stay steady when the ground works against balance.

At last, the bus hisses to a stop. The doors fold open, and the driver barely glances up before looking past to the next in line. The step is high, higher than necessary, but the driver doesn’t lower the bus. Doesn’t ask. Just waits.

“Hurry up,” someone mutters from the back.

A pause is all it takes. Eyebrows lift. A throat clears. The woman with the watch makes a sound in the back of her throat, something between impatience and disapproval.

Stepping up takes effort, more than it should. Mobility isn’t just about movement. It’s about whether the world makes space for it. A bench at the stop. A driver who notices. A bus designed with the assumption that not every body steps up the same way.

Inside, a seat opens up. Sliding into place, shoulders square, the heat of the window presses against skin. Conversations resume as if nothing happened.

“People just expect special treatment these days.”

Not loud. Just loud enough.

No one responds. No one needs to. The message lands, a quiet verdict passed in the rhythm of a public space. Disapproval without confrontation. Dismissal without words.

Mobility is tolerated as long as it doesn’t slow things down, as long as it doesn’t require adjustment, acknowledgment, or patience.

Outside, a teenager darts across the street, light and unburdened, the city bending to meet her rhythm.

The bus lurches forward. The sun burns on, unyielding. There will be another stop, another crowd, another moment when the world expects stillness, silence, disappearance.

But disappearing isn’t an option. The world isn’t designed for every body, but every body still moves through it. Still stands. Still takes up space.

The heat presses down. The sun remains. So does the person sitting by the window, shoulders squared, unshaken.

The ride continues, one stop after another, the city unfolding in patterns of movement and pause, rush and resistance. Another bus stop. Another set of passengers. Another unspoken test of who will be given room and who will have to carve it out for themselves.

How many unspoken exclusions must pile up before belonging becomes nothing more than an illusion? How many times can someone be quietly shut out before they start to believe they were never meant to belong at all?