The Day by Daria Voshchanytska

The monotony of the days had already grown tiresome, like bitter coffee lingering on the lips.

The rain steadily tapped its song on the window frame. Drops slid down, fell, and again and again brushed past the passersby. Murky clouds hid the bottomless sky from human eyes. It seemed that all living things were bustling and rushing today. Everyone was busy with themselves, ignoring the lonely figure at the bus stop. Not in the sense that I was alone — instead, separated from the others: I covered my solar plexus with my hands, stared at the ground, and drifted in my thoughts. Though, just like everyone else. I simply like to romanticize.

I was counting the seconds until the bus arrived.

One, two… four…

The road dust mixed with the water, creating a new puddle of mud, in which I was to see my insanely tired silhouette: dark circles under my eyes, wet shirt clinging to my body, hair tangled from wind and rain, and eyes — dimmed, as if looking through the reflection without noticing it. In that puddle, I saw not only myself — there was the shadow of all sleepless nights, shattered hopes, and crumpled morning promises.

In the fleeting light, the sky opened up. I squinted, looking even more intently. Before me surfaced a sunny Thursday. A little black-haired girl peered into the puddle, took a few steps back, threw a cobblestone, and started counting the ripples on the water. For her, it was not just a puddle — it was a vast ocean, and the stone was a steamboat sailing the waves of childhood imagination.

“Dasha, come eat!” called her mother.

The girl reluctantly went inside. She didn’t feel like eating at all. She wrinkled her nose when she saw semolina porridge with lumps and raspberry jam. She twirled the spoon in her hands for a long time, delaying the first bite, then slowly, with visible disgust, brought it to her mouth. The tea had already cooled down when she swallowed the last spoonful with effort and sighed in relief. Freed from those chains, the little girl ran outside again.

Seven… ten… still no bus.

She had grown up. Her hair was neatly braided into two tight pigtails with giant white bows, which her grandmother had given her for a holiday. She went to school in a strict uniform but tore her tights at home, ran barefoot, and greedily examined new Winx stickers — bought with her pocket money. These bright pictures decorated everything: notebooks, bedside tables, cabinet doors, and wallpaper — as if she wanted to surround herself with a fairy tale and push reality aside.

Fourteen seconds…

The scent of lilacs and first love filled the air. A gentle breeze swayed her loose hair, curling the locks and tossing strands over her face. She sat on a bench near the school, clutching a diary where his initials were neatly written. Her cheeks blushed slightly with excitement — he was somewhere nearby. A year older, confident, laughing, seeming adult, and unreachable. Every glance from him was a miracle, every word a whole story. She dreamed he would notice her. Even once. He was special. It was impossible not to love him. Everyone loved him. And she adored him.

Sixteen seconds.

She was rejected.

Seventeen seconds were supposed to smell of despair, but instead, she felt freedom. As if an invisible burden fell from her shoulders. Her lips wore a transparent gloss, her eyes were carefully lined — nothing but loneliness. But it no longer frightened her. It was a quiet space for herself: for thoughts, observations, morning tea on the balcony, books, and unfinished diary pages. She was learning to be herself, without noise, running around, or trying to please anyone.

Nineteen minutes. Finally, the bus arrived.

But instead, in the puddle, I saw sleepy eyes sparkling with glimmers of hope for a bright future. A youthful lady stood in the prime of her life, with her ambitions, goals, and thirst to live genuinely. She was burning — not from burnout, but from inner light, from the desire to move forward despite fatigue, fears, and doubts.‎

Every day, she tried repeatedly, even when she didn’t believe in success. She studied until she was exhausted, fell, got up, and kept going. The past no longer held her. And most importantly, for the first time, she stopped seeking support from others and chose herself. 

The black strands of hair were carelessly tousled, giving the figure a carefree, almost rebellious look. They flowed as if slightly ruffled by the wind, emphasizing the casualness of the appearance. The shirt, already dried after the dampness, was made of a light, almost weightless fabric that clung tightly to the body, clearly outlining every curve and contour of the figure, like a second skin. Its simple yet expressive lines involuntarily drew the gaze.

On the fingers lay a thin layer of pale nail polish, shimmering with a gentle, ghostly glow. It flashed now and then in the reflections of passing car headlights, creating a mesmerizing effect, as if tiny stars were lighting up and fading in the rhythm of the night’s movement. Street lamps cast a warm amber light on the scene, softening harsh shadows and adding a soft, almost golden glow to the face. Around them spread the muted hum of the - city a blend of engine noise, distant voices, and occasional horns woven into the atmosphere, enlivening the moment with the pulse of nightlife.

Running onto the bus, I took off my glasses, wiped them with my sleeve, and smiled at the little girl who was sticking stickers onto the seat.