**Diary Entry**
Late May, and the summer heat had already settled in for a fortnight. Emily boarded the bus and instantly regretted it. Rush hour meant cramped bodies, stifling air, and the sickly warmth of strangers pressed against her. The dress clung to her damp skin. Someone jabbed an elbow into her back.
“Move forward, love. We’ve all got places to be. Some of us ought to walk—takes up half the bus, you do,” grumbled an older woman behind her.
“Look who’s talking—hardly a twig yourself! Shift over, then!” growled a rough male voice. The crowd surged, squeezing the breath from Emily’s lungs.
“Blimey, you’re crushing me!” whined another passenger.
The doors hissed shut, and the bus lurched forward. Behind Emily, the bickering continued.
“What’s your problem, eh?”
“You’re one to talk. Reeks of beer—can’t even breathe proper!”
Emily couldn’t turn her head without burying her nose in someone’s shoulder. The overhead rails were out of reach, lost in a forest of limbs. The bus jerked, brakes screeching, tossing passengers like pickles in a jar. They only stayed upright because there was no room to fall. A faint breeze slipped through open windows, but at every red light, the heat and tempers flared anew.
Emily bit her lip, dreaming of cool air, home, a shower. The bus lurched again.
“Oi, driver! Careful! We’re not firewood back here!” the rough voice shouted. “Bet you’ve got the AC on up front while we roast!”
Another jolt—slowing for the next stop.
“Nobody else’s getting on! We’re packed like sardines! Anyone getting off?”
“Me!” Emily cried, desperate. “Let me out!”
The doors wheezed open, releasing the squabblers first, then Emily. A final shove from the woman—fist to her shoulder.
“Bloody cow! One stop and you take up half the bus!”
The doors swallowed the insult before Emily could retort. She walked home, blinking back tears. That word—*cow*—echoed. It wasn’t new.
School had been worse: *cow, hippo, mammoth*. Doctors found nothing wrong—just “big-boned,” they said.
“Mum, why’d you have me? Who’d want a blimp like me?” she’d sobbed after school. “Should’ve married some skinny bloke. Then I’d be like you.”
“You’re not *fat*, love. Takes after your dad—he was broad, handsome. Women fancied him rotten. Just you wait—see who *you* marry.”
“I won’t. Who’d have me?”
“Someone proper. Not all men want scarecrows. Wait till you see those pretty girls after babies—plump as puddings!”
Diets failed. Running brought sneers: “Careful, lads—slippery from all the grease!” She quit. Stopped looking in mirrors.
At thirty-three, no love, no family. “No more buses,” she swore.
The next day, an empty bus arrived—rare luck. She stepped on, tapping her Oyster card. A sudden lurch sent her flying. *This is it—cracked skull on the aisle…*
***
**Diary Entry**
That morning, James’ car wouldn’t start. Five minutes of futile cranking, then a tow to his mate’s garage. A taxi got him to work—late. No hurry going home; no one waited. He decided to walk but spotted a near-empty bus. The 24 went straight to the garage. Why not?
Later, he’d call it fate.
His ex-wife had been a stunner—tall, slim, cold as marble. Proud at first, then hollow. She lived on spinach and disdain. “Men should watch their waistlines too,” she’d say. “Get fat, and I’m done.”
He dreamed of roast beef, sneaked meals at his mum’s. “Marry a proper lass,” she scolded. “One who bakes pies, wants kids.”
Divorce was quiet. Loneliness louder.
Then—on that bus—a woman in a floral dress lost her balance. James caught her, felt her warmth, the weight of her. Heart hammered.
“You alright?”
“Thanks. I’d have gone flying.”
They chatted—bus luck, quick reflexes. Then she left.
He waited days at her stop. Finally, there she was.
“Remember me? The bus?”
Her smile lit the pavement. “Emily.”
“I’m James. Let me drive you.”
“Where? I live there.” She pointed.
Desperation struck. “Tomorrow, then. No more buses.”
She eyed him. “I’m hardly some delicate flower. What d’you want with me?”
“When you fell into me… I knew.”
Doubt melted. Love bloomed. She’d been told no one would want her—until *he* did.
Diets never slimmed her. Happiness did. Funny, that—how love becomes you.
We married. She glows now. And I? I’ve never been so full.
**Lesson:** The heart knows what the scales don’t measure.
