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The rhythm of the city often feels like a sequence of hurried, disconnected moments—a blur of faces, the hiss of pneumatic brakes, and the distant hum of traffic. On a Tuesday afternoon that felt otherwise unremarkable, I found myself adrift in this urban flow, riding a cross-town bus that was crowded enough to be stifling but quiet enough for introspection. At seven months pregnant, I had reached that specific stage of physical existence where exhaustion is no longer a feeling, but a permanent resident in your bones. Every joint ached with the peculiar gravity of new life, and my heart, though buoyant with anticipation, felt the heavy strain of the day.
The bus lurched and swayed, a steel cradle carrying its diverse cargo of commuters. When the doors hissed open at a mid-town stop, a gust of cool air swept in, followed by an elderly woman. She moved with a fragile, deliberate grace, her eyes scanning the rows for a place to rest. Without a second thought, I pushed through the fog of my own fatigue. I shifted my weight, anchored myself against the overhead rail, and offered her my seat with a genuine smile. It was a small gesture, the kind of basic courtesy that seems to be flickering out in the digital age, yet it felt essential. She accepted with a soft, appreciative nod, settling into the plastic seat beside where I now stood.
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