The bus shelter’s plastic panels were scratched with initials and adorned with various stickers. A lampost buzzed overhead, flickering just enough to make me wonder if it was trying to communicate in Morse code.

I checked the bus tracker on my phone: 3 minutes. Then it immediately changed to 6 minutes, then it said Due. Then 7 minutes.

Classic.

A gust of wind whipped down the street, carrying the distant thump of someone’s headphones. I shifted my weight from foot to foot, counting the seconds. I was trying not to think about my frozen bedroom or the mountain of reading awaiting me on my desk for when I got home. Eventually, headlights turned the corner, cutting through the drizzle. The bus lumbered toward the stop as if it, too, had a long day and wasn’t at all thrilled about continuing. I stepped forward, phone in one hand, student card in the other – flashing my bus pass at the scanner.

I collapsed onto one of the seats available, my backpack digging into my spine like it was punishing me for every lecture I’d skipped. Two and a half hours of working on an essay and wrestling with various academic articles in the library had left my brain the texture of over-boiled porridge: grey, lumpy and mildly tragic.

It was just another typical ride home.

Then I gazed up at the route display and froze.

All of a sudden it began flickering, buzzing like a neon sign above a dodgy takeaway – before settling on:

NEXT STOP: MISSED OPPORTUNITY LANE

I blinked. Twice. Was I hallucinating from too much caffeine?

Nope. Still there, glowing like it had gossip about my future.

Only then did I notice the passengers. The bus had been empty when I got on – or I’d swear it was. Now every seat was filled with people sitting far too still, like mannequins that had only just learned breathing.

Then one woman shifted. That’s when my stomach dropped.

She looked exactly like me. Me, only with faint lines etched around her eyes. Me, but with silver threads in her hair, catching the bus lights. Me, wearing exhaustion like a jumper she’d forgotten how to take off.

“Long night, hen?” Older Me asked, her voice soft and too familiar.

I pressed the stop button several times it almost broke. The bell pinged; the bus slowed; relief washed through me. The doors hissed open a fraction – just enough for a cold gust from Great Western Road to nip my cheek before slamming shut.

“We don’t get off here” said the man beside me. I didn’t recognise him fully, but that déjà vu itch crawled up my spine – as if he was someone who should’ve mattered, if I’d ever given him the chance.

“Missed Opportunity Lane isn’t a stop. More of a guided tour.“

The engine groaned on, the whole bus humming as if it were offering a warning. Outside: a street stitched from all the places I’d avoided.

The dance studio near Kelvinbridge I’d walked past for years, promising I’d pop in “once I had time.”

The internship flyer I’d screenshotted but never applied to. A billboard flashing APPLICATIONS CLOSED, smug as anything.

My chest tightened.

NEXT STOP: PROCRASTINATION SQUARE

Screens lit the square – loops of me scrolling, tapping, refreshing, letting deadlines drift by like the Clyde. Notifications pinged in the windows, each a tiny reminder that tomorrow wasn’t an infinite resource.

A girl then leaned forward – the one I’d met during Freshers Week. I liked her, but I’d also never texted her back. Except, now she looked older too, like life had gently sanded down her edges.

“You didn’t mean to end up here,” she said quietly.

I shot to my feet, knees cracking in betrayal. I’m getting off this bus.

“Not unless you choose to.” Older Me said. “And no, pulling the handle isn’t the kind of choosing I mean.”

Still, I yanked it and still, it didn’t move. Obviously.

The bus plunged into a tunnel, lights flickering like faulty ones in the Queen Street Station underpass.

NEXT STOP: LOST TIME LOOP

Clocks covered the tunnel walls, their hands spinning too fast – too eager.

Shadows, versions of me in outfits I nearly bought, holding dreams I almost chased – ran beside the bus, aging with every step, reaching for minutes that evaporated like steam over the River Kelvin.

My throat tightened.

“Is… is this where I’m headed?” I whispered.

Older Me exhaled – not annoyed, not judging. Just…understanding.

“Only if you stay on this line. You think someone else is driving, but you’ve had the wheel the whole time. Even drifting is a route.“

Her words echoed through the tunnel like late-night annoucements at Buchanan Bus Station. The display shuddered violently.

FINAL STOP: LIFETIME REGRETS

The bus slowed. Dread sat heavy in my chest, cold as a winter morning on Sauchiehall Street.

No. Not tonight. Not on this timetable.

I shut my eyes and pictured my normal bus route – the one which rattled past the chippy that always smelled suspicious, the charity shop full of mismatched mugs, the streetlights smudged by Glasgow drizzle. I pictured stepping off near my flat, wind slapping me awake, while promising myself I’d sleep instead of doomscrolling.

The brakes screeched. When I opened my eyes, the bus was empty.

The display now read:

YOU DECIDE THE NEXT STOP

This time, the doors opened wide – warm, welcoming, patient.

I stepped out onto my familiar pavement. The Glasgow wind hit me immediately, sharp, cheeky, alive. Behind me, the bus pulled away, its windows reflecting futures I wasn’t required to inherit, watching it vanish into the night.

Then I wrapped my coat tighter, trudged home, and felt – beneath the exhaustion – a small shift, a subtle sense of direction returning as I’d finally taken back the wheel.

The future wasn’t some far-off terminal, it was just the next bus I chose to board.

Katie Lundberg

She/Her
Third Year History and Journalism, Media and Communication student