Every morning, the bus came at 7:42.

And every morning, she arrived at 7:43.

It became a routine so consistent that even the pigeons at the stop looked at her like, “Bestie… again?”

She would stand there, backpack slipping off one shoulder, hair still damp from a rushed shower, watching the bus disappear into the corner like it had places to be and she, unfortunately, did not.

So she walked.

Past the bakery that smelled like warm butter and hope.
Past the tiny park where old men played chess like it was a life-or-death tournament.
Past the coffee shop where the barista always gave her a pity smile and an extra napkin.

One day, while she was walking and practicing an imaginary speech she would never give in class, someone matched her pace beside her.

“Bus left you too?” he asked.

She nodded, slightly embarrassed, like missing a bus was a personality flaw.

So they walked together.

The next day, they missed the bus again. Together.
The day after that, again.
Soon, it felt less like bad timing and more like a quiet agreement with the universe.

They never talked about big things.
They talked about assignments they hadn’t started, food they missed from home, and how the campus cats acted like they paid tuition.

Sometimes they didn’t talk at all. Just walked. Two people sharing the same piece of morning air.

One day, she arrived at the stop early. 7:40.

The bus came.
She could have taken it.

But she waited.

When he showed up, slightly out of breath, she smiled and said,
“Looks like we missed it.”

He laughed. And they walked.

She realized then that some of the best things in life don’t arrive on time.
They arrive slowly, on quiet sidewalks, between half-finished sentences and footsteps that fall into rhythm.

And maybe… missing the bus wasn’t bad luck after all.
Maybe it was the universe being a little sneaky, setting up meetings in the most ordinary places.

After all, not all journeys start with a ticket.
Some start with, “Bus left you too?”