It started with the four-hour bus rides they used to take together.


They were from the same town. They’ve been talking online and on the phone for two years, but they’ve never met. They were both studying in the city four hours away from home; she was a pre-university student in college and he was a sophomore in university. She went home every weekend by bus, and so did he – Fridays to go back home, and Sundays to go back to the city. It was he who suggested travelling together. _{Hey, at least we’ll have each other to talk to.}


They almost missed the bus on their first ride together. It was Friday evening, and she was waiting with their bus tickets at a train station where they were supposed to meet. He showed up late. They got the last two seats in the back and she was mad at him for making her run from train station to bus station. He apologized, coaxed, persuaded, and apologized again. She ignored him and continued staring out the window; the rows of trees blurring with speed. He turned her head to face him, and he kissed her.


Two days later, Sunday afternoon, second bus ride. The sun shone brightly, illuminating her face. She entertained herself by occasionally pulling on the hairs on his arm. _{Does that hurt? Yeah.} As the bus went through a dimly-lit tunnel, he kissed her again, and this time she responded. He held her hand until they parted at the bus station.


He bought the tickets for their third ride, choosing seats in the last row. It rained heavily that day and the roof leaked all over her seat. She sat on his lap for hours with his arms and his warmth around her. They fell asleep watching raindrops slithering down the windows together. _{I’m glad it rained. Why? Because I get to hold you in my arms.} She smacked him for being so cheesy, but it only made him smile.


On their fourth ride, she gave him letters she wrote to him in class, little anecdotes of her daily life in college. He held her palm open and traced on it with his index finger: I L O V E U. _{I’ve been in love with you forever.} She was silent.


Their fifth ride was on a Sunday. They discussed wants and osmosis and existentialism and leeches and poetry. He took her back to the house from the bus station – they walked to the train station, took a train and then a cab and had dinner together. Lying on soft green grass beneath orange night skies, he kissed her. She reciprocated by tickling and poking his sides. (She would never look at that field in front of the house the same way again.)


On their sixth bus ride, they weren’t together. He sat in the back and she sat in the front row and avoided eye contact. She sent him a text message: _{I cannot do this anymore. I’m sorry.}


At the bus station back home, her boyfriend of six months gave her a peck on the cheek and carried her bags as he watched from the back of the bus.


He knew, but he was devastated all the same.


_{Pleasure and pain, sunshine and rain.}