A Fresh Reminder in Rush Hour

After a long day at work the other day, I boarded a bus to go home. As usual, it was already crowded. I glanced at the long queue behind me and sighed. With no other option, I squeezed myself in like a sardine in a small tin can, while several people outside kept pushing in.

Once the sliding bus doors closed, everyone breathed a collective sigh of relief. I believe we all shared the same goal: to get home as fast as possible. (We employees need enough rest, because commuting can sometimes be a much harder grind than an 8-to-5. Bosses, please take note!!!)

Still, something in the air felt unusual. Among the tired, worn-down faces, I noticed a few… anomalies. And they came in the form of fresh faces (and by fresh, I mean genuinely fresh and happy, a sharp contrast to the rest of us exhausted passengers).

So, the group stood a few sardine-steps behind me. They were a handful of men, probably in their mid-to-late thirties, dressed in ordinary work attire. Some even carried laptop bags. In the middle of the bus’ heavy silence, the only sounds came from their banter. It felt slightly offbeat, but oddly fun to hear.

From their conversation, I gathered it was their first time riding the bus. (I swear I wasn’t eavesdropping—they were loud.) Some of them found the experience amusing, even as their hands hung awkwardly in the tight crowd, mostly from inexperience. I watched them get off the bus laughing, talking about how there were far more comfortable alternatives without the sardine-like experience, though they agreed the bus was definitely the cheapest.

I got off at my stop shortly after, while they lingered to check a map on their phones. Their shadows disappeared as more passengers poured in, but their energy stayed with me for hours afterward.

I was fairly sure this route was only occasional for them, and that I wouldn’t be seeing them again anytime soon. I was even more certain they had more comfortable ways to get home—maybe a bike, a train, or even the MRT. But their laughter on that bus, so starkly juxtaposed against our routine-worn faces, felt like a breath of fresh air.

I was surprised by how much I needed that reminder.

Sometimes, familiarity creates distance. It starts when we accept that something simply has to be done, and so we move through it with detachment. I realized I had been doing that too without noticing. I can’t count how many days I’ve slipped into a bad mood because the bus didn’t arrive on time, or because heavy rain at 5 p.m. left me stranded. I became irritable, and I didn’t like who I was becoming.

That day, during my commute home, I thought about how routines can be a double-edged sword. They shape us (I know mine has shaped who I am today, and I still need it for a long time), but we shouldn’t let familiarity sink so deeply that it turns into resentment.

I want to treat my routine more lightly. It may be the same every day, but it’s the small details around it that make it special.

And it’s the little things we should always try to romanticize, isn’t it?

If you like this post, you might also enjoy Catching the Bus: A Reminder to Slow Down and A Chaotic Morning Reflection: In Feeling the Rain.