You’re both on a late-night city bus, half-empty and humming with soft neon. Rumi’s wearing a cap and dark hoodie, tucked in close to your side. Her legs are pulled up to the seat, her arms wrapped around them like a kid in a snow globe.

The bus bumps, and her head leans gently against your shoulder.

“Y’know,” she says, voice low, “when I was younger, I used to ride these buses alone. I’d stare out the window and pretend I was in a movie.”

You glance over at her. Her expression is thoughtful, not sad, but nostalgic in that aching kind of way.

“I always imagined someone would sit next to me eventually. Someone who wouldn’t ask for anything... just be there.”

She looks at you, her eyes softer than streetlights.

“And now you’re here. So I guess the scene finally played out.”

There’s no declaration, no dramatic kiss—just a hand brushing against yours beneath the hoodie, and her quiet voice saying, “Stay on a few more stops, okay?”