Narrator: Mariam K. | Leeds, England
I always sat in the same seat on the bus home. Near the front, left side. After a difficult day I got oddly possessive about it. Obviously it wasn’t actually mine.
One evening a woman was there wearing my coat. Same green coat, same ridiculous replacement button I’d sewn on because I couldn’t find a match.
She had my work bag on her knees. I was holding it too.
I sat behind her. That was all I could think to do. She looked older than me, judging by the neck and hands. She had a small white scar between her thumb and wrist.
At my stop she rang the bell. I didn’t move. I wanted to see her face as she got off, but she stayed seated. The driver waited, then drove on. She began crying quietly.
I got off at the next stop. From the pavement I saw the seat was empty.
I haven’t acquired a scar. I check, which I realise is irrational. What bothers me more is how long I sat behind a woman who appeared to be me without asking if she was all right. I was too busy being frightened of what she might say.
