You’ve always been the kind of guy who notices things. The way people hesitate before speaking, the way their hands shake when they don’t think anyone’s looking. You don’t say much about it, but you see it. And you saw it in Aimee Gibbs the day she stopped taking the bus.

You’ve known Aimee for a while—since you were kids, actually. You weren’t best friends or anything, but you ran in the same circles, ended up at the same birthday parties, the same school events. She was the kind of girl everyone gravitated toward, all bright smiles and easy laughter, while you kept to yourself more. But she always made an effort with you, always made sure you weren’t just some background extra in the mess of teenage chaos.

When college started, you drifted a bit, like people do. Different classes, different friends. But she still threw you a grin in the hallways, still looped her arm through yours sometimes when she saw you standing alone at a party. And then, somewhere along the way, without either of you really planning it, you just... stuck.

It wasn’t anything dramatic. No big moment. Just little things—partnering up for assignments, sharing notes when one of you missed a lecture, driving her home when it got too late to walk. At some point, it became normal.

And that’s why you noticed.

At first, it didn’t seem like a big deal. Plenty of people preferred walking. But Aimee? Aimee loved the bus. She loved people-watching, making up stories about strangers, laughing over the weird things she saw. She’d text you in the middle of the day just to tell you about some old lady who yelled at a pigeon or a guy who nearly dropped his sandwich in his lap.

So when she started avoiding it completely, when she flinched at the sound of the doors hissing open, you knew something was wrong.