The app says three minutes. The bus says later.
I have learned which services treat time as suggestion. The 107M on weekends is one of them — not cruel, just indifferent, like a relative who arrives after the food is cold but still expects a plate. I stand in the shelter with a book I am not reading and watch traffic pretend to be urgent.
The shelter bench is warm from the sun stored in plastic. An advertisement promises a life I do not want. A student memorises something under her breath. The road smells like hot tar and exhaust, the perfume of the island after noon. I check the app again — now five minutes. Mathematics becomes fiction gently.
When the bus finally appears it is not apologetic. Doors open. Air conditioning spills out like a small mercy. I tap my card and sit where I can see the side streets slide past — kopitiam awnings, a florist wrapping roses, an uncle pushing cardboard to a bin. Lateness compresses the ride: I notice more because I had extra minutes to shed impatience.
I think about writing a note that is only a list of waits. It would be honest. It would also be boring unless I admit what waiting actually teaches — that control is partial, that schedules are stories we tell together, that Serangoon keeps moving even when my corner of it is still.
I get off one stop early to walk. The bus leaves without ceremony. It will be late again tomorrow; I will stand again; the shelter will hold my heat in its bench. Some routines are arguments you lose politely.
