Instead, he grinned.
“Damn,” he said to his friends, not bothering to lower his voice, “she looks like she’s about to pop right here.”
The others laughed, the sound sharp and careless, bouncing off the metal walls of the bus, and suddenly I was acutely aware of how exposed I was, how every breath felt heavy, how my balance was precarious and my dignity even more so.
“Excuse me,” I said, forcing my voice steady despite the tightening in my chest, “would you mind if I sat down? I’m really having trouble standing.”
One of them pretended not to hear me, scrolling on his phone, while another tilted his head, feigning confusion.
“We’re tired too,” he replied, smirking. “Long day.”
“Yeah,” his friend added, lifting his feet higher onto the seat, “standing’s good for you. Builds character.”
The bus lurched again, and pain shot through my hips, my vision blurring for a moment as my body protested the strain, and when I gasped quietly, trying not to draw more attention, they took that as encouragement.
“Careful,” the first one said mockingly, “don’t want the whole bus flooded.”
Laughter erupted again, louder this time, and I felt something inside me shrink, not because the words hurt more than others I’d endured, but because no one said anything, because the people around us looked away, because the driver’s eyes met mine briefly in the mirror before sliding back to the road.
