He Didn’t Look Back

It was raining harder than usual.

Jay sat at the bus stand, his foot tapping against the damp concrete. Water crept in from the edge of the roof, darkening the ground near his shoes. A thin stream ran past his heel and disappeared into a crack in the pavement. He shifted his leg slightly, then stopped bothering. He was already wet.

He glanced at the sky and sighed. He had left the umbrella behind, even though his wife had reminded him twice that morning. She had stood near the door, already late herself, holding it out to him while tying her hair. He had smiled distractedly, nodded, and walked out anyway.

He had missed the bus again.

The report due tomorrow had kept him at his desk longer than planned. What was supposed to be a short review had stretched into hours. Meetings ran late. A colleague needed help. Time slipped, quietly and without apology.

Five months into marriage, and already the days felt stretched thin. Long work hours. Longer travel. By the time he reached home, there was barely anything left of him to give. Not conversation. Not attention. Not even irritation. Just fatigue.

The thought sat heavy in his chest.

The bus stand was crowded but strangely quiet. People stood hunched under umbrellas, staring at their phones or into the rain. A child splashed deliberately into puddles until his mother pulled him back. Somewhere, an announcement crackled over the speaker, distorted and incomplete.

Jay checked the digital board. The next bus was delayed.

Of course it was.

His phone vibrated.

Did you get the bus?

He stared at the screen for a moment. The words were simple. Familiar. Concern wrapped in routine. He typed a reply, erased it, then locked the phone without sending anything.

The rent in the city had forced them to move far away. What had seemed manageable on paper now felt relentless in practice. Every day ended with travel. Every night began too late. Conversations were postponed, not intentionally, but constantly.

He already knew—today would end late.

Someone sat down beside him.

Jay shifted slightly and glanced sideways.

He froze.

It was Riya.

For a second, the sound of the rain faded, as if someone had turned down the volume on the world. His jaw tightened. Heat rushed up his neck, sharp and sudden. He hadn’t seen her in five years—not since the night she had packed her bag and walked out of his room, telling him she would marry the man her parents had chosen.

He looked away immediately, his fingers curling into his palm.

The space between them felt smaller than it was.

Then he felt it—the familiar weight of being watched.

Riya had recognized him too.

She sat stiffly, her shoulders drawn in, her gaze fixed on the road ahead. Her face had changed, older somehow, shaped by years Jay had not witnessed. But it was unmistakably her. The same profile. The same quiet stillness she adopted when she didn’t know what to say.

Her hand rested on her lap.

That was when Jay noticed it.

The bracelet.

The thin silver chain he had given her on her twentieth birthday still circled her wrist. It caught the light when she shifted, the metal dulled with time but intact.

His throat tightened.

He remembered standing in a small shop, turning the bracelet over in his hands, wondering if it was too simple. She had smiled when he gave it to her and said she preferred things that didn’t announce themselves.

Questions surfaced uninvited.

Did she ever think of him?

Did she regret it?

Or had those years settled neatly into her past, filed away without residue?

His phone vibrated again inside his pocket.

He didn’t take it out this time.

A bus roared past, spraying water onto the road and the edge of the platform. Jay stood up slowly. His legs felt heavy, but steady. For a moment, he remained standing, unsure whether he was waiting for something—or deciding against it.

He imagined what it would be like to speak. A greeting. An acknowledgment. A question that sounded harmless but wasn’t.

He imagined explaining his life now. The marriage. The apartment. The commute. He imagined her listening politely, nodding, offering updates of her own.

It all felt distant. Incorrect.

This wasn’t a crossroads. It was an interruption.

The rain soaked through his shirt as he stepped forward. He hesitated once more, then moved past the edge of the shelter and out into the open.

He didn’t look back.

The rain came down harder as he walked away from the bus stand. It ran down his neck, soaked his collar, blurred the road ahead. After a while, he raised his hand and stopped an auto. The driver looked at him briefly, then nodded.

As the vehicle pulled away, Jay leaned back against the seat, breathing slowly. The city slid past in streaks of light and water. Shops closed. Traffic lights blinked. People hurried under umbrellas, each carrying their own version of being late.

He unlocked his phone.

The message from his wife was still there.

Did you get the bus?

He typed back.

No. On the way now.

A pause.

Then another message appeared.

Okay. I’ll keep dinner warm.

Jay closed his eyes for a moment.

That morning, she had told him about her day while they stood near the door. Something about a colleague. Something about a meeting. He had listened, but not fully. He wondered how often that happened now—how often they were present only in fragments.

The auto slowed near their street. Jay paid the driver and stepped out. The rain had softened to a steady drizzle. The apartment building rose ahead of him, familiar and unremarkable.

He climbed the stairs slowly.

Inside, the lights were on. The faint smell of food drifted through the room. He could hear movement from the kitchen—utensils, water running.

He paused at the doorway, taking off his wet shoes.

“Jay?” his wife called.

“I’m here,” he replied.

He stood there for a moment longer, letting the noise of the rain fade behind him.

Home was waiting.