Bus along Bedok North Avenue
The upper deck of a double-decker is my unofficial reading room. Bedok North unrolls with shop houses, schools, trees trimmed into obedience, and sky wide enough to forgive the humidity.
Schoolchildren board in clusters that dissolve by the third stop. Office workers appear mid-route as if summoned. The bus breathes in and out at every red light.
I prefer the front row when it is free — not for thrill, for sightlines. You see turns early; the city reveals its geometry.
An auntie offers a seat though I am not old enough to merit it. I accept because refusing kindness is its own kind of noise.
At my stop I descend into heat and petrol smell. The note is already written by then; I only transfer it to paper at home.
The ticket stays folded in my wallet until laundry day. Small artefacts of ordinary routes.
Between stops I read one paragraph and watch one intersection — a rhythm that keeps the city legible without turning it into homework.
A school bag bumps my knee; the owner apologises in a whisper. The bus forgives everything quietly.
Bedok North smells different from the reservoir side — more exhaust, less water. The note remembers both in one ride.
Schoolchildren board in clusters that dissolve by the third stop. Office workers appear mid-route as if summoned by schedule, not choice.
The front row is not for thrill — it is for sightlines. Turns reveal geometry the lower deck hides.
Heat and petrol smell meet you at the exit. The note is already written; paper waits at home.
The folded ticket survives until laundry day — small proof of an ordinary route taken slowly.