Writers 
The Person Beside Me
The bus was almost full when I got on.
I squeezed myself through the narrow aisle, holding my bag against my chest as people shifted reluctantly to make room. The afternoon heat had turned the inside of the bus into a box of warm air, and the windows were already fogged around the edges.
I spotted an empty seat beside the window.
Or at least, I thought it was empty.
“Is anyone sitting here?” I asked.
A boy sitting beside the window looked up from his phone.
“No,” he said. “You can sit.”
I smiled and dropped into the seat.
“Thanks.”
He nodded and returned to his phone.
For the first few minutes, neither of us said anything. The bus bounced along the road, stopping every few minutes to pick up another passenger. I watched the streets through the window while the boy beside me tapped his fingers against his phone.
Then he sighed.
“You look nervous.”
I turned to him.
“Do I?”
“A little.”
I laughed. “Maybe because I hate buses.”
“Then you're definitely on the wrong bus.”
That made me laugh again.
His name was Daniel.
At least, that's what he told me.
We started talking.
Nothing serious at first. School. Music. How terrible the traffic was. How the driver seemed determined to collect every passenger in the city before reaching the final stop.
He was easy to talk to.
Too easy.
I told him things I normally wouldn't tell a stranger. I told him about the school I wanted to attend, the things I wanted to accomplish, and how sometimes I worried I wasn't doing enough with my life.
He listened without interrupting.
“You'll be fine,” he said.
“You don't know that.”
“I know.”
“How?”
He smiled.
“Because you always figure things out eventually.”
I frowned.
“Always?”
He looked away.
“I mean… people like you usually do.”
Something about the answer bothered me.
Before I could ask what he meant, the bus stopped suddenly.
A woman got on and stood in the aisle, holding the metal rail above her head.
She glanced at me.
Then at the empty space beside me.
Then back at me.
“Excuse me,” she said. “Is anyone sitting there?”
I looked at Daniel.
He looked at her.
“Yes,” I said.
The woman gave me a strange look.
“Okay.”
She moved away.
Daniel chuckled.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You're laughing.”
“I'm just surprised you answered so quickly.”
“What was I supposed to say?”
He shrugged.
“Nothing.”
We continued talking.
But now I was paying attention.
Every time someone looked toward our seat, they looked at me strangely.
Nobody spoke directly to Daniel.
Not once.
At the next stop, an elderly man boarded the bus. He walked slowly down the aisle, searching for somewhere to sit.
When he reached us, he stopped.
His eyes rested on the empty seat beside me.
Then his face changed.
He looked at me with an expression I couldn't understand.
“Are you alright?” I asked.
He didn't answer.
Instead, he quietly crossed himself and continued walking.
I turned to Daniel.
“What was that about?”
He didn't respond.
“Daniel?”
Nothing.
I looked at him.
He was staring out the window.
His face had suddenly become pale.
“What's wrong?”
He whispered something.
“What?”
“I think you should get off at the next stop.”
I laughed nervously.
“Why?”
“Just do it.”
“Daniel, you're starting to scare me.”
He finally looked at me.
“I've been trying to tell you.”
“Tell me what?
He opened his mouth.
The bus stopped.
The doors opened.
And suddenly, a woman outside screamed.
I looked toward the entrance.
She was staring directly at me.
No.
Not at me.
At the seat beside me.
Her face went completely white.
She stepped backward.
“That's impossible,” she whispered.
The bus driver shouted at her to move.
The doors closed.
The bus continued.
My heart was pounding.
I turned to Daniel.
“Who are you?”
He didn't answer.
Instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small photograph.
He handed it to me.
I stared at it.
It was a picture of a young boy sitting beside a girl on a bus.
The girl looked familiar.
Very familiar.
It was me.
But I had never seen the photograph before.
I looked at the boy.
My stomach dropped.
It was Daniel.
“Where did you get this?”
He smiled sadly.
“You gave it to me.”
“I've never met you before.”
“Yes, you have.”
“When?”
He looked toward the window.
“Eight years ago.”
The bus suddenly felt colder.
I looked down at the photograph again.
The date was printed at the bottom.
Eight years earlier.
My hands began to shake.
“What happened eight years ago?”
Daniel didn't answer.
Instead, he pointed toward the front of the bus.
“Look at the driver.”
I did.
The driver wasn't looking at the road.
He was staring at me through the mirror.
His eyes were filled with tears.
“Why is everyone acting like this?” I whispered.
Daniel took a deep breath.
“Because they can see me.”
I stared at him.
“What?”
“They can see the seat.”
My heart stopped.
“The seat?”
He nodded.
“But they can't see me.”
I looked around the bus.
Suddenly, everything made sense.
The strange looks.
The woman.
The old man.
The driver.
They weren't ignoring Daniel.
They had never seen him.
I slowly turned toward the window.
My reflection stared back at me.
I was sitting alone.
The seat beside me was empty.
I looked at Daniel.
He was still there.
Smiling.
“You died on this bus,” I whispered.
He nodded.
“So did I.”
My breath caught.
“No.”
“You survived.”
I stared at him.
“I survived?”
He smiled.
“You don't remember because you were too young.”
The bus began slowing down.
My stop.
Daniel looked at me.
“This is where I have to leave you.”
“Wait.”
He stood.
For the first time, I noticed that his feet never touched the floor.
“Daniel…”
He smiled.
“You finally remembered.”
The doors opened.
I stepped off the bus.
Then I turned around.
The seat beside the window was empty.
Completely empty.
The bus pulled away.
I stood there watching it disappear into traffic, still holding the old photograph.
Then I turned the photograph over.
There was writing on the back.
I recognized the handwriting immediately.
It was mine.
Four simple words were written there:
I'll see you again