The doors to the courtroom opened, and I followed my lawyer inside, the weight of the morning pressing in from all sides.
The judge was already seated, papers spread out before him, his expression unreadable.
“Please be seated,” he instructed, his voice firm yet detached.
I took a seat at the table, my lawyer beside me, the opposing counsel across the room.
My parents were absent, their seats empty, a stark reminder of the isolation I felt.
The hearing began, the formalities blurring together in a haze of legal jargon and procedural steps.
I listened, but it was hard to focus, my mind drifting back to the bus, to the woman who had given up her seat.
“Do you have anything to add?” the judge asked, pulling me back to the present.
I hesitated, the words caught in my throat.
“No, your honor,” I finally managed, my voice smaller than I’d intended.
The judge nodded, turning his attention back to the papers.
Time seemed to slow, each tick of the clock echoing in the silence.
My lawyer leaned over, whispering something about next steps, but I barely heard him.
“We’ll reconvene in a month,” the judge announced, bringing the hearing to a close.
The gavel came down with a finality that resonated through the room.
I gathered my things, the weight of the day settling heavily on my shoulders.
Outside, the sky was overcast, a mirror of my mood.
I stood on the courthouse steps, the world moving around me, yet I felt suspended in time.
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