The air in the crowded bus hung heavy with the scent of sweat and exhaust, a stifling, humid blanket over Lusaka. You press your back against the hard plastic seat, watching the city rush by, a blur of red dust and vibrant markets. You try to focus on the street scene, the vendors hawking their wares, the children playing in the dusty streets, but your eyes keep returning to the woman across from you.
She sits hunched over, her face buried in her hands, her shoulders shaking with sobs. You know her. You've seen her around town, her bright smile and infectious laughter a beacon in the bustling marketplace. Now, she's lost in a sea of grief, her eyes swollen, her mascara running down her cheeks, painting dark streaks on her face.
You feel a pang of guilt, a prickling sensation in your chest. You know damn well why she's crying, why her spirit is crushed. You know because you're the reason. You, with your charming smile and whispered promises, have left a trail of broken hearts in your wake. You've been juggling her, with her fierce independence and unwavering love, and another girl, the one who knows you better than anyone, the one you've spent years building a life with.
The bus screeches to a halt, the doors hiss open, and a rush of hot air sweeps through the vehicle. You hear her sniffle and lift her head, wiping her tears with the back of her hand. She catches your eye, and for a fleeting moment, a flicker of recognition passes between you. Her gaze, usually filled with warmth and adoration, is now laced with pain and accusation.
You look away, your heart pounding against your ribs. You don't want to see the hurt you've caused reflected in those eyes, eyes that held so much hope just a short while ago. You'd rather face the angry glares of the other passengers, the judgment in their eyes, the whispers of 'he's a player' floating in the air around you. You'd rather bear their disapproval than the pain etched on her face.
You know, in the back of your mind, that you should do something. Apologize, explain yourself, try to mend the damage you've caused. But your feet seem rooted to the floor, your tongue tied. You're caught in a web of your own making, trapped by the lies you've spun, the promises you've broken.
The bus starts to rumble back to life, the doors hiss shut, and the journey continues. You watch her as she collects herself, brushing back her hair, trying to regain her composure. The vibrant life that had once radiated from her has been dimmed, replaced by a dullness that mirrors your own shame.
You know your actions have consequences, that you can't simply step out of this bus and pretend nothing happened. The pain you've caused will linger, a heavy weight in the air, a constant reminder of your betrayal. The knowledge stings, a sharp, bitter sensation that sits heavy in your gut.
You look out the window again, at the bustling city, the endless stream of people going about their day. You see her reflection in the tinted glass, her sadness a stark contrast to the vibrancy of the city around her. You see her, your reflection, and you see the hurt you've caused. It's a scene you can't escape, a burden you'll carry with you long after the bus reaches its destination, long after the city fades from view.
The bus lurches, bouncing over a pothole, and you feel a tremor of fear. Fear not only for the consequences of your actions, but for the woman across from you. You know you've hurt her, that you've shattered pieces of her soul, and the thought of her pain weighs heavily on you. It's a burden you'll carry, a whisper in your ear, a constant reminder of the choices you've made, the damage you've caused, and the love you've betrayed. And you know, deep down, that you'll never truly escape the consequences of your actions, even if you manage to outrun the tears of the woman across from you.
