I froze, terrified, when this motorcyclist sat next to me on the bus. A giant in black leather, with a gray beard that reached down to his chest. His tattooed arms looked like they were made of iron, and the smell of gasoline and cigarettes hit me like a punch in the face.đ±
The bus was half-empty, but he chose to sit right next to me. I pressed myself against the window, my heart pounding so hard that I could hear it in my ears. My backpack pressed against my chest, I tried to make myself small, to disappear.
He didnât look at me, but a heavy tension hung in the air between us. My breath was shallow, and my thoughts were a jumble. Iâd heard so many scary stories about strangers, but now, I couldnât do anything. He had taken me hostage.
Then, he pulled out a small piece of paper, folded in half, and handed it to me, without a word, without looking at me.
I hesitated, my hands trembling as I took the paper. I slowly unfolded it, my eyes fixed on every letter.
And there, six words: “I know what youâre planning tonight.”đ±
The paper dropped from my hands, and I shuddered. How did he know? He didnât even know me.đ±
Finally, I looked at him, and I saw his red eyes, filled with tears. This giant, this monster, was crying. Terror flooded me, but an odd compassion also overwhelmed me.
“How?” I whispered.
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He turned toward me and whispered: âI saw you on the bridge three nights ago. Standing on the wrong side of the rail. I was riding home on my motorcycle. I stopped, but you climbed back up before I got there. You didnât see me.â
A cold shiver ran through me. How did this man know? How had he noticed something so intimate, so private?
âSince then, I take this route every night, hoping not to see you come back. Iâm here for you, if you need me.â He wiped his eyes, his voice growing more serious. âWhen I saw your look tonight, I understood you were going to do the same thing.â
My legs were shaking. I felt like I couldnât breathe anymore. He had seen through me. He knew what I was planning to do.
He pulled out an old photo from his wallet. âThis was my daughter, Emily. She was your age. She jumped off the bridge four years ago. I found her body. Since that day, I promised Iâd never let another young person do the same thing without intervening.â
I stared at him, stunned. This man, who seemed so frightening, had gone through the same pain as me.
He placed a comforting hand on my shoulder. âYouâre not alone.â
