Inside a cramped bus, and then there were us.

"Come on, let's go home," you say as we both see a city bus approaching, and I can't help but smile a little. Home. What you mean by 'home' is your small, rented room, which space only enough to accommodate a twin-sized bed, a cupboard for clothes, and a small drawer. A small place I've been visiting from time to time. A small place where we need not to worry about anything. A safe place for us. A sanctuary for two. 

It's a home, yes, let's call it that.

You climb up first just like always. You never wait. You never look back. You know I will always be right behind you, with your back as my compass. It always feels as though you walk alone, without me as a companion, if only your hand doesn't reach behind and try to find mine. A hand that I always take without fail, because no matter how tight we hold to each other, no matter how strongly our fingers intertwine, the second we bump into our friends and acquaintances, this connection will break. And I don't even know whose hand let go first; it ends in a blink of an eye. And if they call you, or me, then one of us will walk away, talking to them casually. Pretending we are going alone. We will exit the bus at the same stop, separately, and my hand will take yours again after the bus speeds off.

Nobody can know about us.

Nobody should know about us. You never tell your friends about me, let alone your family. My name never comes up when your parents are asking whether there is someone in your life you can introduce to them. And so does yours. But it's fine this way. I understand. You understand. It's them, who will never understand. And that's why we will never tell. Even God says we both will be going down to hell.

This love is ours only. 

In silence, our fingers lace together. 

Creating a small prison, locking up our story so nobody can see.

z. d. imama