Invisible in Plain Sight
The city woke up in a blur of sound and motion — honking horns, wet footsteps, and the hiss of bus brakes. It was another weekday rush, another sea of faces moving too fast to notice one another.
The number 27 bus groaned to a stop. Passengers surged forward, coffee in hand, eyes glued to their phones. Just a few feet away, a young woman sat quietly in her wheelchair, waiting.
Her hair was tied neatly. A tote bag rested on her lap. She didn’t call out or wave for help — she simply watched the open bus doors and the stream of people walking past as if she were invisible.
The driver saw her in his mirror. So did the crowd. Yet, no one moved.
The woman gripped her wheels, trying to angle toward the bus. The curb was too high. The ramp wasn’t lowered. She hesitated — then tried again.
People brushed past her without a word. A woman on the phone turned away. A teenager stepped around her, earbuds in. It wasn’t cruelty. It was indifference.
Inside the bus, impatience grew.
“Why aren’t we moving?”
“Come on, I’ll be late!”
The driver’s hand hovered near the ramp lever. Lowering it meant getting out, helping her, explaining the delay. A small eternity in city time.
Then their eyes met — hers pleading, his uncertain.
He was about to close the door when a voice interrupted:
“Wait.”