Bus along Bukit Batok East Avenue
Bus 991 — or whichever number arrives when I am not checking — has become a moving room I know by heart. Plastic seats, aircon that thinks autumn is a temperature, the gentle sway that makes reading possible if you hold the page lower.
I board near the estate entrance where mothers queue with toddlers and delivery riders compare phone maps. Nobody talks much before nine; after six, conversations leak out anyway.
Along Bukit Batok East the view alternates between trees and shopfronts: a clinic, a minimart, a salon with mirrors that flash sunlight into the upper deck. I watch reflections more than advertisements.
An elderly man gets off at the stop I always forget the name of. The driver waits an extra second — not policy, courtesy. I notice these micro-graces because they are easy to miss if you scroll instead of look.
When my stop approaches I stand early, as Singapore teaches. The aisle fills with the small choreography of bags and umbrellas. Outside, the heat reclaims you instantly.
I walk home thinking how a city can feel long and short on the same route. The bus does not solve anything. It simply carries you faithfully.