Today, I Saw My Inner Child at the Bus Stop

Today, I Saw My Inner Child at the Bus Stop

By Ihtisham Hussain

It was one of those mornings that felt like it hadn’t woken up yet. The sky yawned behind a veil of gray clouds, and the city moved like it was still rubbing sleep from its eyes. I walked my usual path to the office—headphones in, coffee in hand, thoughts already tangled in deadlines and inboxes.

And then I saw her.

She sat alone at the corner bus stop, legs swinging from the bench that was too tall for her feet to reach the ground. Red sneakers, slightly scuffed. A denim jacket with cartoon pins on the collar. Bangs crooked like they’d been cut by a trusting hand and a pair of too-sharp kitchen scissors.

She looked about nine. And she looked exactly like me.

At first, I didn’t slow down. Must’ve been a coincidence—a little girl just waiting for the bus, same haircut, same freckles, same serious stare. But then I caught the way she was looking at me. Not the wary glance of a stranger, or the blank stare of a child bored by waiting. No, it was a look of recognition. Sharp and steady. Like a mirror you weren’t ready to look into.

So I stopped.

"Hey," I said, unsure why I felt nervous. "You waiting for the 23?"

She didn’t answer. Just tilted her head, curious. “You look tired,” she said.

I let out a soft laugh, more breath than sound. “Yeah. Grown-up stuff’ll do that to you.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Do you still draw?”

The question dropped into my chest like a stone in a well. I blinked. “Sometimes,” I lied. “Not as much as I used to.”

“I used to draw dragons and castles,” she said proudly. “You were gonna be an illustrator. You said you'd write books and live by the sea.”

“Plans change,” I said, softer than I meant to.

She kicked her heels. “Do you still sing in the shower?”

A small smile tugged at my lips. “Sometimes.”

“Do you still cry when you’re sad?”

Another pause. “Not really,” I said. “You get good at hiding it.”

She frowned. “That doesn’t sound very fun.”

It wasn’t. But I didn’t know how to explain the weight that life adds to your back while you're busy trying to move forward. How dreams shift under the pressure of bills, bosses, and broken hearts. How easy it is to trade wonder for routine, and not even notice until something like this—like her—pulls it back into focus.

“You used to like the rain,” she said, looking up at the sky. “You said it made everything feel softer.”

“I still like it,” I said. “I just don’t always have time to enjoy it.”

A car drove by and splashed a puddle near us. She laughed, sharp and sudden, the kind of laugh that grabs your ribs from the inside. I had forgotten what that laugh felt like.

“Do you ever play anymore?” she asked.

I hesitated. “I scroll. I watch. I listen to podcasts. That kind of thing.”

She gave me a look that said, that’s not what I meant.

And maybe that’s when it hit me—the ache of loss I hadn’t been aware of carrying. Not loss in the traditional sense. No one had died. Nothing had broken. But something had been quietly set down a long time ago and never picked back up.

Me.

She was still there, swinging her feet and waiting at the stop for a ride that never came. And I had walked right past her, year after year, chasing versions of adulthood that didn't include her laughter, her dragons, her unapologetic joy.

“I miss you,” I said, and it startled me how true it felt. “I didn’t realize how much.”

She smiled. “You can still find me, you know.”

I nodded. “Yeah. I think I will.”

The bus pulled up, but she didn’t stand. She just looked at me, calm and sure, like her part was done. I turned to watch the bus doors hiss open, then close again, empty.

When I looked back, the bench was empty too.

But something had changed in me. Something small but certain. Like a light clicked on in the attic of my chest. I stood for a moment longer, then tucked my headphones away, let the rain soak through my jacket, and walked the rest of the way to work with no music and no rush.

I watched puddles form.

I smiled at a crow on the lamppost.

And for the first time in a long time, I let my imagination sketch wings on its back.