The Night Bus to Jerusalem
"On the last bus from Amman to Jerusalem, strangers Nabil and Sana share the overnight journey—and discover that some connections need no more than twelve hours to become eternal."
The Night Bus to Jerusalem
The bus was half-empty, the late hour keeping most travelers away. Sana took a window seat, hoping to sleep through the six-hour journey.
"Mind if I sit?"
She looked up at the man—handsome, tired, holding a coffee cup like a lifeline.
"The whole bus is empty."
"I know. But you look like you have good stories."
Despite herself, she smiled. "What makes you think that?"
"The notebook. The pen. The way you're already writing me down."
Nabil was a photographer, heading home after a shoot in Jordan. Sana was a writer, returning from a conference she'd hated.
"Why hated?" he asked.
"Because everyone talked about Palestine without listening to Palestinians." She closed her notebook. "I'm tired of being an object of study."
"Then be a subject instead."
"A subject?"
"Tell me your story. The real one. Not the one for conferences."
They talked until the border crossing, then whispered through passport control, then resumed as the bus climbed toward Jerusalem.
"I've never told anyone this," Sana admitted, sharing childhood memories.
"That's the magic of night buses." Nabil's hand found hers. "Everything said disappears by morning. Unless you want it to stay."
"What do you want?"
"To remember you. Whatever happens after."
They kissed somewhere past Jericho, the Dead Sea glimmering below.
"This is crazy," Sana breathed.
"Night buses are crazy." He pulled her closer. "Let's be crazy together."
They made love quietly, carefully, the bus dark around them, other passengers sleeping or pretending.
"Ya Allah," Nabil groaned against her ear. "Sana—"
"Don't stop. Please—"
He didn't stop until Jerusalem's lights appeared on the horizon, until they both shattered silently, until dawn threatened their fragile magic.
"Give me your number," Nabil said as the bus reached the station.
"This was supposed to be one night."
"It was. Now it's morning." His eyes were earnest. "New rules."
"What rules?"
"The ones where I call you. Where we get coffee. Where we see if this was accident or fate."
Sana looked at this stranger who'd become something more in twelve hours.
"Na'am," she said, writing her number in his notebook. "Call me."
"When?"
"Tonight. When the magic is supposed to disappear." She kissed him one last time. "Let's see if it does."
The magic didn't disappear. Neither did they.
Some journeys, Sana realized, weren't measured in miles.
They were measured in the moments that changed everything.