Love - in transit. A bus, a gaze, a time of becoming.

After an evening of caroling with old high school friends, the bus ride home hummed with warmth. The kind that lingers on cheeks after mulled wine and laughter, or maybe just from the snow-heavy December night pressing against the windows.

She found herself giggling beside a boy with emerald eyes and elf-like charm. They spoke—awkwardly at first. She asked something, he stumbled, and smiled in a way that made the cold feel far away. By the time they stepped off the bus into a soft snowfall, contacts had been exchanged and smiles borrowed.

In the days that followed, he called himself "not good". She didn’t believe him. How could he be? He made her laugh. He made Baby, It’s Cold Outside sound like an invitation rather than background noise. They drank sweet wood tea while unwrapping oranges and stretched conversations like string lights between winter evenings.

She was gullible. He said it like an observation, not an accusation. She wore it like a scarf—soft, maybe naive, but warm.

Where does a winter bus ride lead when spring arrives?
To melting hearts, tangled feelings, a few unnecessary dramas.
Life was simple then, though she didn’t know it yet.

In the hush between heartbeats and sky, she pressed into his life with the wonder of someone exploring what first times steal and leave behind.