I stood at the bus stop, like every Thursday. An umbrella unfurled above my head. Raindrops rolled down it, like tears tracing magenta cheeks. Frigid air bit me through my jacket, but I resisted. I had to stay. 

Like every Thursday, I see you come to stand beside me out of the corner of my eye, a silhouette of warm shadow. As I turned to smile, I froze when you stared back at me, face unreadable. Your eyes were angry, bright hot against the downpour. Yet I could see flashes of silvery sadness, disappointment. I spoke, but words meant nothing. Just sounds travelling across the growing gap between us. 

“What?”

Your lips tightened, eyes still glaring. I felt a sinking, tugging feeling in my chest. Like a hand reaching up, and twisting my heart with an iron grip. Finally, painfully, you opened your mouth to speak.

“I don’t think we can be friends anymore.”

You were soaked from the rain, but refused to step under my umbrella, letting rain cling to your eyelashes. I blinked, panic rising in my throat, tying my tongue in a knot.

“What did I do?”

You shake your head, let out a disbelieving laugh. It sounds wrong. I don’t know what it means, but it hurts to hear it. Knives that shoot straight for my heart. I open my mouth to speak, but I can feel the darkness rising up, threatening to spill out. It swamps me, sitting on my chest and weighing me down. The rain lets up, yet the clouds still cover the sun.
You wait for the bus to come, and watch me board. You see I’m confused, but don’t care. Some part of you likes seeing me hurt. I lock eyes again with you when I take a seat, and you smile one last time. I know it's not for me.
That's the last time I saw you. You unfollowed me on social media, blocked my number. I had always hoped, still do, that you would come around. You would apologize, and we would wait for the bus hand in hand. 
My wishes were futile.