There were prayers I whispered on quiet commutes, carrying nothing but the fragile hope that one day, life would meet me where my dreams had already gone.
Just me by the window, the steady hum of the bus, and the same familiar streets slipping by—so often they began to feel like silent witnesses to every worry I never spoke aloud.

Some days, all I had was the rest of the ride and a small promise tucked into my heart: keep going. I didn’t know when things would change. I only knew I had to believe they would.
Now, when I think back to those rides, I realize I wasn’t just traveling home. I was slowly making my way toward the life I’d been praying for.

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