It was seven in the evening and raining. As I sat down in the #44 bus I glanced around me. Everyone’s face, including mine, was expressionless. Except for a hello to the bus driver, there were no eye-contact, no exchange of pleasantry between the riders. We were merely cargo being transported from here to there.
A boy opposite from where I was sitting hid his face on top of a soft carrying bag, which he clutched tightly on his lap. If he was sleeping he had assumed a strange position. From Glen Park to Mission Street he never raised his head, and I seemed to hear muffled groans as the bus rattled on. People got on and off without paying him attention and my stop was quickly approaching.
“Are you alright?” I went over and sat next to him after someone got up.
“No,” the boy looked up. Tears were rolling down his face. A pool of water was collected on his bag.
In the next thirty seconds he told me someone broke up with him because he said he was too young.
“I’m sorry,” I put my arm around him. I had missed my stop. “But I can tell you definitely that things will get better. You have to be strong.”
The lady across from us handed him a tissue paper.
“I’ll try,” he sobbed.
I got off the next stop, feeling sad.
We were not cargo after all.
