I’ve been sitting here waiting at this bus stop, waiting for my husband to come by soon. It’s been years and I’ve never forgotten about him. I remember exactly how his eyes crinkled when he laughs, how his expression appeared comical when he was frustrated with something.

I heard the sound of a bus in the distance. I waited eagerly. The bus came to a stop in front of me, doors creaking open.

But no one got out.

I saw him sitting in one of the seats, staring off into space. I walked up to the bus and beated against the side, hoping he’d hear me. I became more frantic as the bus closed its doors and began driving. I kept beating against the bus, harder and harder, desperate for him to just look at me.

The bus drove on, leaving me there. The foolish one. The only one who got off the bus. The tears came as I realized that he forgot about me and moved on after the 50 long years that we’ve been apart.

The 50 long years that I had been dead.

I shouldn’t have gotten off the bus.