Seats of Silence

Seats of Silence

Golden hour hit different that evening.

The light didn’t just shine through the bus window it spilled. Like a slow, quiet ache bleeding through the sky. The warmth on my shoulder felt less like sunshine, more like a hand that used to rest there.

Everyone around was lost in their own silence. The road hummed, the seats creaked, but inside… I heard you.

That one empty seat next to me?

It held more than space.

It held a ghost of laughter, a piece of the past, and the echo of someone who once made this ride feel like home.

We used to sit together here you leaning against the glass, me pretending not to watch you smile at sunsets. We’d talk nonsense, point at clouds, and laugh at nothing.

Now, there’s only air where you once were… and a silence that somehow speaks louder than our old conversations ever did.

The outside world rushed past trees, streets, shadows like the time we thought we had.

But inside, time froze.

You know what hurts most?

Not that you’re not here…

But that everything else still is.

The same bus. Same route. Same golden hour.

And me pretending I’m okay when I haven’t been since the last time we got off this bus together.

I clicked this photo not because it was scenic but because it hurt.

It reminded me that even moving forward doesn’t always feel like progress.

Sometimes, it just feels like running from a version of yourself that had someone to sit beside.

But not the memories.

They’ve found their seat.

They ride with me. Every day. Every mile.

Uninvited. Unspoken. Unforgettable.

And maybe… some journeys don’t take you forward.
They just replay the moments you never got to say goodbye to 
again, and again,
until the silence becomes your only companion.