My shoelaces keep getting tangled in the bus seat's crevice, an embarrassing ritual that I've come to dread. In a world that values spontaneity, I'm stuck fumbling for order in the knots of my worn out laces. I spot her sitting across from me, an unreadable mixture of disinterest and curiosity etched on her face as our bus rumbles through the city's late afternoon sprawl. Every so often, our eyes meet in fleeting, apologetic smiles as I wrestle my laces onto some semblance of respectability. What is she thinking of – the tangle of my shoelaces or the quiet desperation it represents? As I give up and let my feet drag along the floor, our gazes lock one last time before she buries her face behind a hoodie, forever silencing our peculiar, awkward connection.
2