Endless Hallway Sprint to the Bus‑Platform Kitchen

Endless Hallway Sprint to the Bus‑Platform Kitchen

I was late for the morning train, sprinting down the hallway of my apartment building, but the hallway kept stretching forever. I finally burst out onto the street and saw the platform—except it was the same platform from the subway, and the train was the old school bus I used to ride in fifth grade. The driver was my former physics teacher, looking exactly like him but also like my dad at the same time. He called out my name, and I tried to hand him my ticket, but it turned into a tiny, glowing key that slipped through my fingers. I chased after it, but each step felt like wading through thick water. When I finally reached the bus, the doors opened onto my kitchen, and Mom was already making coffee, humming the theme from a sci‑fi show we used to binge. I stood there, half‑in the bus, half‑in the kitchen, wondering if I’d missed the train or just missed waking up.