My dad dumped me on the highway in my cap and gown just to make room for my sister’s giant orange Hermès box, then leaned over with a smirk and said, “Bentleys don’t carry failures—take the bus, Alyssa.”

I checked my watch calmly. The time read 8:41 in the morning.

I gathered my gown so the hem would not drag through the dirt and began walking toward the next exit. My heels tapped steadily against the pavement while cars roared past.

A billboard advertising luxury condos towered above the road with smiling couples beneath the word exclusive. I laughed quietly because the universe clearly enjoyed irony.

The bus shelter smelled like damp glass and faded paint. A man wearing a worn jacket stared at the transit schedule with visible irritation while a teenage girl with headphones bounced her foot impatiently.

Neither of them gave me more than a quick glance. A girl in a graduation gown waiting for a bus apparently was not unusual enough to interrupt anyone’s day.

When the city bus finally arrived it exhaled loudly and the doors folded open. Warm air spilled out carrying the scent of diesel and wet umbrellas.

I stepped inside and moved toward the back while lifting my gown carefully above the sticky floor. The plastic seat felt cold beneath me while the scratched window reflected the gray blur of the city.