The bus groaned as it lurched forward, the fluorescent lights flickering overhead. Arthur sat rigidly, hands folded too neatly in his lap, trying to take up as little space as possible. The seat beside him shifted when someone sat down — a girl, quiet, bundled in a jacket that smelled faintly of lavender. He didn’t look at her directly, but he felt the presence like a warm shape in the cold morning.

He wanted to say something. Anything. Just to feel human for a moment.

His throat tightened. “Um… hi,” he whispered, barely audible over the engine.

The girl turned slightly — he saw the movement from the corner of his eye — but before he could form the rest of the sentence, a sharp, involuntary laugh tore out of him. Too loud. Too sudden. It echoed off the metal walls of the bus.

Arthur’s breath hitched. Not now. Please not now.

Another burst of laughter escaped, jagged and painful. His eyes watered from the strain. He pressed a trembling hand to his mouth, trying to smother the sound, but it only made it worse. The pressure in his chest built until it felt like he was choking on his own lungs.

He fumbled for the laminated card in his pocket, fingers clumsy, vision blurring. He didn’t look at her — he couldn’t — but he held the card out with a shaking hand.

He heard her shift, felt her take it. Silence stretched. The bus rattled on.

Then, softly, she handed the card back. No sharp inhale. No disgust. No muttered complaint. Just the quiet rustle of paper and the faintest nod he caught from the edge of his vision.

Arthur swallowed hard, the laughter tapering into small, broken breaths. His shoulders sagged with relief and exhaustion.

“I’m… sorry,” he managed, voice raw.

She didn’t say anything. But she didn’t move away either. She didn’t recoil. She simply sat beside him, steady and unbothered, as if his presence wasn’t something to be endured.

For Arthur, that was enough. More than enough.

The bus rumbled on, and for the first time that day, he didn’t feel like he was collapsing alone.