Every Friday, a woman in a wedding dress sat alone at the same bus stop, crying beneath a flickering streetlight while the neighborhood pretended not to notice her. The night I finally sat beside her, she whispered something that made me realize she wasn’t heartbroken — she was afraid.
The evenings in my neighborhood always felt heavier than the mornings, especially on Fridays when the sun bled orange across the rooftops, and the air went still.
From my third-floor window, I could see the bus stop across the street, a small bench under a flickering lamp where strangers came and went without ever really looking at each other. I worked late most Fridays as a graphic designer, hunched over my laptop, and that window was my only company.
For about a month, the same woman appeared every Friday at sunset, dressed in a full white wedding gown with a veil that brushed the pavement.
She would sit on the bench, fold her hands in her lap, and stare at one exact spot across the street. Sometimes she cried, quietly, the kind of crying that didn’t move her shoulders.
People noticed. Of course they did.
“Did you see her again last night?” my upstairs neighbor, Marcus, asked me one morning in the hallway, smiling like we shared a private joke.
“Crazy bride downstairs,” he chuckled, adjusting the cuffs of his expensive shirt.
“Every Friday like clockwork. I keep telling people, just ignore her. She’s not your problem, Daniel.”
I gave a small, uncomfortable laugh because that’s what I always did.
“Probably someone left her at the altar,” he added, shaking his head.
“Tragic. But you can’t fix everyone.”
Marcus clapped my shoulder and walked off, whistling. I stood there a moment longer than I needed to.
Back in my apartment, I sat by the window with my coffee and watched her again.
A teenager across the street pointed and laughed. An older couple crossed to the other sidewalk to avoid her. Nobody stopped.
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