Bus 962 and I have an understanding that is mostly mine. I leave home two minutes earlier than necessary because the bus often arrives before I reach the stop, as if it enjoys winning. The bench is empty, the display says three minutes, and then the bus materialises around the corner with the quiet triumph of a vehicle that keeps its own timetable.
The stop sits along Sembawang Crescent where the morning sun hits the shelter late. Commuters line up without talking much — office badges, school bags, one uncle who always reads the same folded paper. When the early bus comes, the queue moves with practiced patience. Nobody runs unless rain is involved.
I ride this service when I want to reach Woodlands without thinking. The interior smells like air-conditioning and yesterday's commuters. Seats by the window show you the estate sliding past: laundry, potted plants, a boy practising dribbling in the void deck. It is ordinary transit, which is why it belongs in a personal blog.
Once the bus arrived so early I had time to buy kopi from the stall near the MRT and still board without rushing. The uncle raised an eyebrow — a compliment, I think. On the upper deck I wrote half a page about corridor railings and whether moss green paint would upset the committee. The bus rocked gently. Nobody asked what I was writing. That is privacy in public.
Early buses reward people who mis-trust their own punctuality. I am one of those people. The habit is small but defining: leave early, sit by the window, let the city pass at bus speed instead of train speed. Slower views, same destination.
If you are ever at my stop and see a woman with a notebook checking the time she does not need to check, that is me, still surprised the bus beat me again.
