Window Seat

Michelle woke up before her alarm, not because she was rested, but because her body had learned that tired was normal now.

Her eyes opened to the grey light leaking around her curtains, and for a moment she just lay there, staring at the ceiling, letting the weight of the day settle on her chest. Walmart opening shift. Then straight to McDonald's for a few more hours. A double. Again.

She exhaled slowly and rubbed her face.

This wasn't forever. She reminded herself of that every morning. This was temporary. Two years, maybe less if she kept pushing. No rent, thanks to her mom. No student loans yet. Savings growing, even if slowly. A future that belonged to her.

A future she was building with her own two hands.

Her dad had been gone four years now. Cancer. Fast and brutal. Sometimes it still felt unreal, like he was just late coming home. Her mom held things together, but Michelle knew how thin the margin really was. That was part of why she worked so hard. Why she said yes to every extra shift. Why she didn't mess around with boys, no matter how tempting it might be.

Boys derailed plans.

For a girl like her, there wasn't much room for mistakes.

She had learned that early. How people watched. How people judged. How a single wrong move could turn into a story about who she was, the colour of her skin, instead of just something she did. Just like many other Black girls her age, she didn't get the luxury of being reckless. She had to be careful. She had to be smart. She had to be better than good.

"You have to be twice as good to get half as far," her mother had told her one day when she came home from school crying, wondering why a white teacher had been so mean to her. "I know it's not fair, but that's the way the world works. It's your generation that'll change things, so keep your head up and always try harder."

Michelle wasn't about to let her mother down.

She sat up, stretched, and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Her muscles protested immediately. She ignored them. Pain meant progress. At least that was what she told herself.

She showered fast, pulled her hair back, and got into her Walmart uniform. The blue vest felt heavier than it should have. She packed her McDonald's uniform into a duffel bag and slung it over her shoulder, then headed downstairs.

Toast. Juice. Standing at the counter because she didn't have time to sit.

Her mom was already gone for her own shift. A sticky note on the fridge said, Love you. Be safe. Michelle smiled faintly and peeled it off, tucking it into her pocket.

Then she was out the door.

She made the bus just in time, jogging the last few steps as the driver was about to pull away. The doors hissed open, and she climbed aboard with a muttered thanks, already feeling that familiar mix of relief and dread.

The bus was crowded. Too crowded for that early. She hated it. Early morning buses were full of people who looked like life had wrung them out and sent them back for more. Blank faces. Slumped shoulders. Zombies on a schedule.

She managed to grab a window seat, which felt like a small victory.

Two stops later, someone dropped into the seat beside her.

She glanced sideways and immediately rolled her eyes internally.

Middle-aged. Overweight. Office clothes. The kind of guy who looked like he'd spend all day in front of a computer and all night complaining about his back and worrying about his hairline. She shifted slightly toward the window, creating as much space as she could.

Of course.

She was used to men like him looking a little too long. Used to that quick assessment in their eyes. Not always hostile. Sometimes worse. Casual. Assumptive. Like her presence was an invitation. Over the years she had learned to read it. Learned when to shrink. When to harden. When to pretend she didn't notice.

The bus kept filling. Soon there were people standing in the aisle, gripping poles, pressed too close for comfort. The man beside her shifted, and she felt his arm and shoulder brush against her.

She stiffened.

She hated this part. The too-close. The not-enough-space. The way some men looked at her like she was something to be consumed instead of a person trying to get to work. She turned her face toward the window, jaw tight, pretending the city outside was more interesting than it was.

Trying to disappear.

A car pulled up alongside the bus at a light. She barely paid attention at first. Just another commuter. Another stranger.

Then she looked down.

The hair on her arms stood up.

For a split second, the world felt... wrong. Like someone had nudged reality sideways. The light seemed sharper. The air heavier. Her stomach dipped, the way it did on a sudden drop.

Her breath caught.

Roy.

She didn't question how she knew. She just knew.

Her boyfriend.

The thought landed in her chest with a rush of warmth that made everything else fade. The bus. The crowd. The man beside her. None of it mattered anymore.

Riding the bus was the worst. But riding the bus and just happening to see your boyfriend on your way to work?

That made it all worth it.

Her lips curved into a smile before she could stop it.

She almost pulled out her phone right then. Almost texted him. But she stopped herself. She knew his office area. She knew her McDonald's was close by. The idea sparked in her mind, bright and exciting.

She'd surprise him after work.

The thought made her grin wider.

The man beside her noticed. He smiled back, clearly thinking the smile was for him.

Michelle didn't care.

He wasn't terrible looking, she supposed. In a familiar way. A little soft. Hairline starting to recede. Something about him even reminded her of Roy, just a little. The type. The build. The age. Guys like that had always caught her eye, even if she rarely let herself indulge the thought.

Roy, though?

Roy was everything.

She leaned her head lightly against the window, watching the car pull ahead, her reflection faint in the glass. For the first time that morning, despite the double shift, despite the bus, despite everything, Michelle felt light.

She had something to look forward to.