The Eyes of a Forgotten Friendship
A sudden jolt of the bus nearly knocked over the woman in the worn blue coat—she barely caught the handrail before collapsing onto the lap of the woman beside her. Flushed with embarrassment, she steadied herself and looked up—then froze.
“Val?” she whispered, staring at the familiar face.
The woman she’d almost toppled into glanced at her for only a second… then turned away as if she didn’t recognize her.
But her grip tightened around the handle of her old handbag, and her face paled as if drained of blood. Her eyelids trembled.
Lydia Simmons (the woman in the blue coat) gaped at her, disbelieving.
It *was* her—Valerie Carter. The very same Val she’d shared a market stall with for nearly a decade in Manchester during the rough ’90s.
Yes, she’d changed. The once-luxurious dark hair was now streaked with gray, pulled into a tight bun. Lines framed her eyes, but those dimples—and the scar above her brow—were the same.
“Val, don’t pretend! It’s me, Lydia!” she blurted. “We worked side by side at the old market! Remember ’98, when—”
“You’ve mistaken me for someone else,” Valerie cut in, her voice cold, her gaze averted.
“How could I mistake you? We were like sisters!” Lydia exclaimed, louder than she meant to.
“I don’t know you. Leave me alone,” Valerie hissed, her voice cracking.
The bus fell silent. An elderly woman with a shopping trolley turned to stare.
Lydia faltered. Her eyes flicked to the man beside Valerie—sallow-faced, greasy-haired, in a battered leather jacket. Then she noticed it: beneath the foundation, a faint bruise on Valerie’s cheekbone.
Lydia’s chest tightened.
“Oh—forgive me,” she muttered. “My eyes aren’t what they used to be.”
A few stops later, Valerie and the man disembarked. Through the window, Lydia watched as he barked at her, and Valerie stood with her head bowed like a scolded child.
At home, Lydia sat by the window, memories flooding back.
She and Val had started selling trinkets together, hauling bags from the wholesale markets, fending off pickpockets. She recalled the day Val had lunged at two thugs with a stick, saving Lydia from being robbed—earning that scar in the process.
She pulled out an old photo album.
A snapshot of them behind their stall. On the back, in faded ink: *”Lydia & Val. 1998. We’ll be alright!”*
“How, Val?” she whispered. “We were family… What’s happened to you?”
A week later, she spotted Valerie again.
Seated at the back of the bus, with the same man. Lydia studied him—then went cold.
**Victor Shaw.** One of the same brutes who’d once threatened her at knifepoint. And now he was with Val—her Val, quiet and broken.
“Not now,” Lydia muttered. “She’ll deny me again. I’ll do it differently.”
Next time, she boarded behind them. While Victor fumbled for change, she slipped a folded note into Valerie’s palm.
Valerie stiffened. Met Lydia’s eyes—then pressed her lips together twice.
Their old code. *Danger nearby.*
Lydia nodded and moved on.
One thought pulsed through her: *That’s my Val. And I’ll save her, like she once saved me.*
Nearly a year passed. Her phone stayed silent. But Lydia *knew*—Valerie would call. Eventually.
And she did.
“Lyds, you beauty!” Valerie’s voice crackled through the receiver. “Tomorrow at three. Where we always were.”
Lydia arrived at the café early, her hands shaking as she ordered coffee.
Then—the door chimed.
And there she was. Val.
Not the hollowed-out woman from the bus. The *real* Val—jeans, white blouse, short hair, eyes alight.
**”VAL!”** Lydia bolted up.
**”LYDS!”** Valerie cried back.
They clung to each other, wordless.
“You’re *brilliant*,” Lydia breathed when they sat. “Last year, you were—”
“Last year, I was dead,” Valerie said quietly, gripping her hand. “But you… that note. It brought me back.”
“Me? I only—”
“Exactly. No speeches, no names. Just *you*—still there. And I… I remembered who I was. And who I’d become.”
She’d left. Started over in London.
“After the miscarriage, I thought I deserved the pain. That’s why I stayed with *him*. But your note… it snapped me awake.”
Now, Valerie works in the city. Smiles again. Breathes freely.
Lydia visits often. They stroll along the Thames, laughing like they used to.
And both know this:
Some meetings bring you back to yourself. And sometimes, a single crumpled note in a crowded bus is all fate needs to rewrite a life.
