Everything feels different yet strangely familiar. The pandemic hit our lives like a tide, leaving nothing untouched, and is now receding back to the sea. As I sit here, mask securely in place, I can't help but notice how the world has changed around me.

The bus used to be packed, filled with the hum of conversations, the rustle of newspapers, and the occasional burst of laughter. Now, empty seats dot the landscape like silent reminders of all that we've lost.

Our minds constantly seek familiar faces, and we often resist replacements, just like I resisted the new driver's smile today, hiding my discomfort behind a grin. I hated facing the reality of the regular driver’s absence—the one with the lazy smile behind his puffy face and a nod at the end of each journey. That simple interaction summed up our relationship, yet his absence now triggered my fears of the empty seats behind the driver. Maybe it's just a detour. I hope to find him on another bus someday, on another route. I really wish.

Moving forward, I noticed the absence of the big lunch box that used to obstruct everyone's path on the bus. The man with the big tummy and an even bigger lunchbox was always quiet. I can still vividly imagine his daily feast—a spread of sandwiches, fruits, and snacks that could feed a small army. His seat is empty now, and I can't help but wonder if he's another victim of this relentless pandemic or if he's found a different route to work.

Should I stop searching for familiar faces, as fear begins to grip me? It's almost humorous how people adapt to your absence. Death is undeniably painful, but the intensity of that pain gradually lessens, only resurfacing in moments of silence. If not, days pass by without you, remembered only when something triggers memories of you, like a possession. And then, slowly, we fade away.

I think back to the early days, when the pandemic was just a distant news story. It crept closer and closer until it was right at my doorstep, and suddenly, everything changed. I missed the commute. The bus was a microcosm of society, a mix of people from all walks of life, each with their own story. Now, as I sit here, I realize how much I've missed those stories, those fleeting connections that made the world feel a little less lonely.

It's heartbreaking when you witness a seat only half-filled. She sat there, gazing out the window, while I paused and glanced at the empty seat beside her. She had lost him—the one she used to talk to endlessly, while he listened attentively, never taking his eyes off her. In a world where most people are glued to their phones, he was her listener, her world. Now, she sits in silence throughout the entire ride. Did you lose him to the pandemic or did he take a detour in life?

And then there's another empty seat that catches my eye, one just a few rows behind. It's my seat. The one I've occupied every morning for years. I wonder if anyone noticed my absence. Did they think I'd moved away? Found a new job? Or did they assume the fact, that I had become another statistic?

Then reality sets in—I am just that, a statistic, merely a number among the many who didn't survive the tide. Yet, I find myself hoping not to encounter any of the occupants of those empty seats on my journey on this side. Somewhere deep down, I want to believe that they are on a different bus headed to a different destination.

As the bus trundled along its route, I found myself hoping against hope that none of my fellow passengers had crossed over to my side of life. I stared out the window, my thoughts drifting between memories of those who used to occupy the empty seats around me and the uncertainty of what lay ahead.

The bus screeched to a halt, jolting me out of my reverie. A small figure in a crisp school uniform stood at the door, clutching a backpack adorned with colorful patches. It was the kid—the only one who used to smile at me during my daily commute. His bright eyes met mine, and a genuine smile lit up his face as he stepped onto the bus.

I couldn't help but smile back, a warmth spreading through me at the sight of his familiar grin. In that moment, I felt a glimmer of hope amidst the melancholy that had settled over me. Here was someone who remembered me, who saw beyond the masks and the empty seats.

As the kid made his way down the aisle, he paused beside me. "Hello," he chirped, his voice filled with innocence and curiosity.

"Hello there," I replied, my voice tinged with relief. It felt comforting to have a familiar face beside me again.

The bus rumbled back to life, continuing its journey through the streets that had once been so familiar. I glanced around, taking in the changes—the vacant seats, the masked faces, and the lingering sense of loss.

Then it hit me. The kid was here with me now, in this side of life. He, too, was merely a number in a world reshaped by tragedy and resilience. The realization washed over me, a wave of sadness mixed with gratitude for this small connection amidst the vast unknown.

Quietly, I removed my mask and moved to a seat next to the kid, a new spot for both of us. He looked up at me with curiosity, and I offered him a reassuring smile. Together, we gazed out the window as the bus announced a detour due to unforeseen circumstances.

Through the glass, new scenes unfolded before us—streets bustling with masked pedestrians, shops cautiously reopening their doors, and signs of life returning, albeit slowly. The city was changing, and adapting, just as we all were.

Beside me, the kid pressed his face against the window, his eyes wide with wonder. "Look!" he exclaimed, pointing at something outside—a rainbow painted on a nearby wall, vibrant and hopeful against the grey backdrop of the city.

I followed his gaze, a smile tugging at my lips as the bus rolled on.

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