“Alright, alright. Go back to your seat. I promise you won’t die today. Just sit tight and relax!”
I nodded and quietly returned to my seat, though my heart was anything but calm.
He might have sounded confident, but as the bus merged onto the highway, everyone fell silent.
A heavy tension filled the air.
Somewhere in the distance, faint sounds of rockslides echoed down from the mountain.
All eyes were locked on the road ahead.
The driver slowed the bus as we approached the stretch my mother had warned about.
Then—boom—a thunderous crash.
A large rock came tumbling down the slope.
The driver slammed the brakes. The bus screeched to a halt—barely stopping in time, just inches from the boulder.
Still visibly shaken, the driver wiped sweat from his brow, shot me a quick look, then climbed down to check the road.
He moved the rock himself and got back on board.
The tension in the bus had doubled.
No one said a word, but the fear lingered in every breath.
Luckily, the rest of the highway passed without further incident.
I exhaled in relief and finally remembered to check my backpack.
As I rummaged through it, I realized something horrible—I had forgotten to bring a pen.