The green-white glow of the lights in the bus washes out her pale lips. Her light eyes buried under thick eyeliner and dark mascara. She chews on the heel of her palm. The metal of her braces leaving tiny dents.

She twists the fraying strap of her backpack with her free hand: twist-pull-twist-pull. A way to vent her anger and nervousness.

Her eyes dart to the boy sitting two rows in front of her, across the aisle. She mentally runs her finger down his soft arm, touching his fingertips to her own.

It's the same way every day on the 6:17 bus. She watches him. He never sees.

Every night she promises herself that the next night she will talk to him.

The 6:17 bus comes every day, and still, she has never spoken to him. The man who she used to know as her father.