The last Seat

The bus was almost full that rainy afternoon. I stepped in, scanning for an empty spot, and saw only one — the last seat at the back.

A boy sat by the window, his head slightly tilted, watching the raindrops race down the glass. I slid in next to him. He didn’t look at me, but I noticed the sketchbook resting on his knees.

Page after page was filled with drawings of eyes — all kinds, each one so detailed it felt like they were looking back at me.

“You draw a lot,” I said softly.

He turned to face me. My breath caught. One of the eyes in his book was mine. Exactly mine — the same shape, the same tiny scar in the iris I’d had since I was a child.

“You don’t know me yet,” he said quietly. “But one day, you’ll sit here again, and we’ll both remember this moment.”

Before I could speak, the bus stopped. He closed his sketchbook, stood up, and stepped off into the rain.

I pressed my hand to the window, watching him disappear into the blur of wet streets.

I never saw him again.
But every time I take the bus, I leave that last seat empty — just in case.

                                          ~AISHMEEN