Like stars in the nightly skies

Summer was slowly ending, and the chilly August night was mercilessly biting into my body. It tore at my very core and seemed to rob me of my last strength. Forces whose absence made the night feel so cold and lonely to me. It was another day of work that did cost me everything. It was Friday. But I didn't have the weekend off. I would pay the price for the exertion I endured over the week. In any case, my employer would not reward me for my efforts. No thanks, no higher wages, just more work.

With the last of my strength, I shuffled to the bus stop to start the last part of my long journey home. The small town seemed as empty as my heart at this late hour. The sound of my shoes dragging on the lifeless asphalt echoed through the streets loudly, making my miserable presence known to everyone. The reverberation melody of my life bouncing back from the house walls – nothing more than a cacophony for everyone’s disgust. It sang of exertion, ponderosity, and the point in time, the anticipation of adulthood met the miserable end that now is my existence. How did that saying go? To be a child again. Now that I was crushed under the weight of adulthood, I finally understood it.

Arriving at the bus stop, I let myself fall against the pane and slowly sank to the ground. The cold from the glass pane quickly ate through my sweater and onto my back. And the chilly floor immediately punished me for lowering myself to it. But I remained seated. Head down, my backpack next to me. It was a clear night. But my self-absorption rendered me blind towards it. "15 more minutes," I told myself in the depths of my thoughts. "15 minutes until the bus takes me to the quiet solitude of my apartment, where I will again find no rest."

But just as the cold threatened to finally possess me, I heard the sound of a voice. Someone spoke to me in a deep, steady tone, filling me with new warmth. I don't know if it was the calmness of the voice that immediately took possession of me. Also, I don't know if the question or the fact that someone spoke to me irritated me so much.

"Aren't the stars beautiful tonight?" was the question that reached my ears.

When I looked up, I saw a man in his early 40s. The first grey mingled with his well-groomed brown beard. The brown-grey hair was surprisingly full. And even though I couldn't see the colour of the eyes in the dark, I noticed their living fire. With a smile, I greeted the warmth the stranger brought to me.

"I haven't looked up yet," I replied with a sad simper.

He threw an understanding smile at me and seemed to look deep into my soul: "A look at the stars sometimes shows us how lonely we are. They seem to stand so close together, and we think we can see images in them. But the lines we draw between them are fictitious. And their closeness is nothing more than an illusion. They are light years apart."

It was as if the man was looking straight into my heart, seeing what lay within me. I do not know why. But his closeness filled me with warmth and security. As I sat on the bus stop bench, my smile broke free from the cold and refilled with warmth. The man sat next to me. Sitting like this, we talked about loneliness and the stars for a while. And with every word from his mouth to my ears, I felt more security and warmth in me. That's when the bus pulled in.