Chapter 2: The Bus Confession
The bus engine grumbled beneath them, a constant vibration through the thin mattress of Rumi’s lower bunk. She stared up at the corrugated ceiling, tracing the shadows cast by the buzzing fluorescent light. It smelled of recycled air, the sweet decay of leftover bingsu from two cities ago, and, faintly, her own lavender lotion on her hands, which she’d folded over her stomach like she was in a coffin.
Above her, Mira was a statue. She hadn’t moved in fifteen minutes. Rumi knew because she’d been counting. From the middle bunk opposite, Zoey’s phone glow pulsed like a feeble blue heartbeat, illuminating her focused frown.
“You’re going to wreck your eyes,” Mira said into the stillness, her voice flat.
“My eyes are indestructible,” Zoey muttered, thumbs flying. “They’re tempered by years of reading fanfic in dark buses. It’s, like, training.”
A packet of chips rustled. Zoey was always eating.
Rumi closed her eyes. The words were still there. I’m trans. Three syllables. She could say them right now into the dark. It would be easier. No mirrors, no direct eye contact. Just the truth released into the shared, sleepy air.
She took a breath.
“You know,” Zoey said suddenly, her voice oddly bright, cutting through Rumi’s gathering courage. “I was thinking earlier. About, like. Preferences. And labels. And stuff.”
Rumi’s eyes opened. Mira’s bunk creaked as she shifted minutely.
“What about them?” Mira asked.
“Well.” Zoey’s phone screen went dark. She rolled onto her side, facing the aisle, her face half in shadow. “It’s just funny, you know? People get so hung up on who likes who. When really, if you think about it, it’s all just… people. Hearts, not parts. That kind of thing.” She gave a short, performative laugh. “It’s almost pan-dering, isn’t it?”
Silence.
Rumi blinked, parsing the pun. Next to her ear, a water bottle condensation ring seeped into the cheap particle board.
Mira let out a slow breath. “Was that from a meme? I think I saw that on a shirt. A bad shirt.”
“No! I mean, maybe. But it’s a real—it’s a thing. A perspective.” Zoey’s voice had lost its forced levity, slipping into something softer, more tentative. “Like, for some people, gender isn’t even on the menu when it comes to attraction. It’s just… the person. You know?”
She was floundering. Rumi heard it. The joke had been a shield, and now the shield was cracking, revealing the nervous girl behind it. This was Zoey trying to say something real. Rumi should say something back. She opened her mouth.
“So you’re saying you’d date an alien,” Mira stated, her deadpan so perfect it hung in the air like a physical object. “If it had a good personality.”
Zoey’s gasp was half laugh, half genuine outrage. “Mira!”
“What? You said gender isn’t on the menu. Species is the next logical exclusion.”
“That’s not—you’re messing with me!”
“I’m engaging with your philosophical premise.”
Rumi listened to them, the familiar back-and-forth washing over her. Zoey’s moment had passed, folded neatly back into their usual dynamic by Mira’s literal interpretation. Zoey was now passionately arguing about the romantic potential of non-carbon-based lifeforms, her serious tone utterly buried. She’d tried. And they’d missed it.
Just like they’d missed her.
The stone in Rumi’s shoe became a boulder in her throat. She swallowed it down.
“I’m going to sleep,” Rumi said, her voice quieter than she intended.
The argument petered out. “Night, Rumi,” Zoey chirped, already sounding relieved the topic had pivoted.
“Sleep well,” Mira murmured.
The bus rocked on. Rumi turned on her side, facing the scratched plastic wall. She could hear Zoey’s breathing even out into sleep first, always the fastest to drop off. Mira’s breathing, above, remained measured and awake.
Rumi pressed her forehead against the cool plastic. Tomorrow, she promised the ghost of her reflection in the dark window. I’ll say it tomorrow. I’ll find a moment where nothing can interrupt.
In the bunk above, Mira stared at a single rivet in the metal frame. She replayed Zoey’s words. Hearts, not parts. The earnestness in her voice before the joke. It had felt like a key turning in a lock, but Mira hadn’t known the door was there. She’d responded with a joke of her own. A defense.
She thought of Zoey’s hand on her shoulder earlier, the easy weight of her. The way her laughter felt like a physical warmth. A dangerous thought.
Tomorrow, Mira resolved, her jaw tight. I’ll be clearer. I’ll use the actual words.
In her middle bunk, Zoey dreamt of menus with infinite, beautiful options, but her voice was too quiet for anyone to hear her order.