The Bus

That morning I woke earlier than the others.

The whole team was still asleep. They were scattered across thin mattresses in the basketball hall of a Swedish high school. Bodies lay in uneven rows; some were wrapped tightly in blankets, others had their legs and arms spilling out, likely freezing in their sleep, breathing heavily and occasionally turning their heads. I got up quietly, careful not to step on anyone, dressed in silence, and slipped out between them.

We had a game later that evening. Until then, there was time — more time than I knew what to do with.

Outside, the air struck immediately. Though it was August, the morning in Göteborg carried the chill of late autumn back home in Georgia. The cold settled on my face, sharp and heavy. My body tensed, the skin on my arms rising into goosebumps. A thin fog rested over the streets, erasing the outlines of buildings and trees.

For a brief moment, I considered turning back, but I hadn’t come out here for nothing, had I? I had a specific purpose.

I crossed a small grassy yard, neatly arranged between low, brown housing blocks. The quiet was unfamiliar — no shouting, no running, no stray noise. Everything seemed orderly and almost premeditated. Göteborg revealed itself in fragments: cobbled streets, rows of quiet houses, trees carefully planted, people who moved without urgency. There was a calmness to it all that felt both inviting and distant.

As I walked, I took out my phone and dialed a number written on a small piece of paper. It was too early to call, so I sent a text instead.

No reply came.

Not then. Not later.

And even before I could fully admit it to myself, I already knew — it was a fake number.

The day before, we had visited a shopping center, partaking in the standard ritual of tourists — buying things we didn’t need simply because we could. The building itself had seemed enormous to us. Floors layered with clothing, electronics, food courts — everything arranged with a precision that looked almost unnatural. Back home in Georgia, everything is mixed together. Here, everything had its place.

As we left, directly in front of the shopping center, I noticed a bus stop. I waited for a while and eventually boarded the bus marked 07.

I was certain it would take me back to the school.

As I entered, I nodded to the driver — a middle-aged man in a crisp white uniform, wearing a hat that made him look more like a ship’s captain than a bus driver.

I sat down and, as was my habit, began to observe.

The bus was not full, but there were enough people sitting to form a small world. As I watched them, it felt as though I were looking at a timeline, a procession of life unfolding from its beginning to its end.

At the very front, a small gang of kids burst onto the bus. They couldn’t have been older than ten or eleven, but they radiated a sharp, reckless energy. They shoved one another, laughing loudly, flashing stolen glances and hiding things deep in their pockets. I thought to myself, that these kids have set out on a criminal path early in life and chosen a fast, volatile trajectory. A Swedish gangster is a bit of a stretch, but still. Barely a stop had passed when, as quickly as they had jumped on, they jumped back off and vanished into the city.

As soon as the doors closed behind them, I looked out the window and began searching for familiar streets. I was looking for some landmark, a recognizable corner that would tell me I was near the school building. But the buildings outside were foreign to me. Everything seemed dilapidated and old. I certainly did not belong there. So, I stayed in my seat.

Slightly further back sat a young boy with a guitar. His hair was long, not neglected but unconcerned. A short beard framed his face. He had propped the instrument against the seat and was absentmindedly tapping his fingers on its surface, as if rehearsing something in his mind. Beside him sat a young girl with a gym bag, a tired but victorious athlete, staring straight ahead with the intense focus of someone who already knows exactly what her calling is. At the very next stop, both of them rose abruptly and stepped off the bus with a kind of speed, almost a leap. In seconds, they disappeared into the street and blended into the rhythm of the city. Only then did I think, maybe they were together after all, though I hadn’t noticed any interaction between them. I watched them go. I had always wanted to play — guitar, piano, anything that could turn silence into something alive. But I never believed I could. It remained an idea, nothing more. As the bus began to move, I looked through the glass again. The streets here were filled with cafes and bright signs, but I didn’t recognize the place. My school wasn’t located in a neighborhood like this. Therefore, I allowed the bus to carry me even further.

Near the middle doors sat a young man with tired eyes. His clothes were practical, worn but clean. A bag rested at his feet, half empty. His hands bore the marks of labor — small scars that were impossible to hide. He looked like an immigrant, a struggling man working for whatever he could to build a life from scratch. He constantly scanned the bus, not with curiosity, but with vigilance. At one point, our eyes met. I looked away immediately. There was something in his gaze — direct, unguarded — that made me feel uncomfortable. I started looking out the window again, but once more, I collided with a row of unfamiliar avenues. I stared at the street signs outside, searching for something recognizable, a place where I could begin my own struggle and establish myself. There was nothing. It was simply another place where someone else belonged, and I did not. When I looked back, he had already gotten off to grapple with his difficult day.

On the other side of the bus sat a man dressed in a suit. Everything about him was precise — his posture, his clothes, even the way he held his pen. An open folder rested on his knees, full of documents he was calmly reviewing. From time to time, he muttered something and made marks in the margins with small, controlled movements. His phone rang several times. Each time, he answered in the same tone, with the same rhythm, as if repeating a memorized text. I didn’t understand the Swedish words, but the pathos was clearly similar. When the bus entered a denser part of the city — where the buildings were taller and the people moved faster — he stood up, adjusted his coat, and stepped off the bus. He didn’t glance to the side. He only looked straight ahead. Looking out at the tall, glass buildings and the fast-moving crowds, I realized these intersections were unfamiliar to me. I figured my school was in a quieter neighborhood, one populated by hobbits.

I returned to the inner world of the bus. Near the front, a woman in uniform — perhaps a nurse — sat quietly, her hands folded in her lap. She wasn’t looking around. Nor did she seem distracted. There was a composure in her that felt conscious. When her stop arrived, she stood, adjusted her sleeve, and got off. Perhaps she was heading to a clinic, or maybe she was returning home from one. I scanned the block. Still strangers. Still strange roads. I leaned back and let another chance to get off pass me by. This was already getting a bit strange, since the distance from the shopping center to my school didn’t seem like it should be this great. I grew slightly tense, but I continued the journey.

At some point, another man caught my attention. He was well-dressed, looking even more polished than the previous one, but something about him wasn’t right. He stared out the window, motionless, as if looking at something that wasn’t there. When the bus slowed near a stop, he hesitated. He half-rose, then sat back down. When the doors opened, he didn’t move. Only when they started to close did he stand up abruptly and step off, almost too late. Still, he managed to make it. As his foot touched the pavement, I surveyed the landscape once more. Still, I recognized nothing. I saw only a foreign avenue unfolding from the bus window.

Finally, at the very back, sat an elderly couple. They spoke quietly and almost without pause. The woman’s lips moved more; it was as if she were leading the conversation, while the man listened with calm patience. Occasionally they smiled at each other, and their hands found one another more out of habit than intent. When their stop came, the man gathered their belongings — a newspaper, a handbag, a folded coat — and helped the lady to her feet. The bus lingered a little longer than usual as they got off.

They moved slowly. But together.

I wondered what it must feel like, and what it truly meant, to have someone by your side at that age. Did the peace of being together outweigh the fear of losing one another? As the doors hissed shut behind them, I looked outside again. The houses here were quiet, hidden behind well-kept shrubs. I searched for a familiar street, a sign that my wandering was over, but still, nothing recognizable appeared. A deep anxiety began to creep over me.

At some point, I realized something had changed. Silence fell over the bus. Too much silence.

I looked around. There, where people had been sitting just minutes before, were now empty seats. The kids, the musician, the immigrant, the corporate man, the nurse, the old couple — they had all vanished. No movement, no whispers, no shifting of bodies. Only space. I was the only one left, a man who simply could not manage to find his own stop.

I turned back to the window. Outside, the city had changed again — lower houses, foreign streets, fewer people. It looked nothing like the area around the school.

The thought that something was wrong formed slowly, but with painful clarity.

When the bus finally stopped, it did not look like a normal stop. It was an open space, almost entirely empty — a final destination.

The driver turned slightly. “Sluthållplats,” he said, something in Swedish. Then, seeing my face, he repeated in English: “This is the last stop.”

I hesitated, then stood up and walked toward him.

“I think... I made a mistake,” I said. “I was going to the school. I thought this was bus number 7.”

He looked at me, then looked up at the sign above.

“07,” he said.

For a moment, neither of us spoke. Then he nodded.

“Sit,” he said.

The bus turned around. We headed back the same way — but now everything was different. The seats were empty. The same streets passed by, but without the people, without the movement, they looked hollow, as if something essential had been stripped away.

I didn’t try to understand. I just watched.

When we reached the stop where I had originally boarded, I thanked the driver and stepped off the bus.

And that was exactly when I saw her. I practically bumped into her. She stood alone. There was nothing obvious or extraordinary about her, and yet, she completely captured my attention. Perhaps it was the way she stood, or the calmness on her face, or simply the fact that she was there at that moment.

Without thinking — without any plan — I walked up to her. I said something simple. Direct. Perhaps too direct. I told her she was beautiful. I asked for her number.

She smiled — a slight, ambiguous smile. There was something in that smile I couldn’t completely read. Then she wrote her phone number on a scrap of paper, and we parted ways.