The girl beside me on the bus began hiccupping, a sudden, uncontrollable series of jolts that broke through the quiet hum of the afternoon commute. At first, I found it amusing, a sort of unexpected quirk to break up the monotony, and I almost laughed aloud. But as the hiccups persisted, my amusement gave way to sympathy. Poor thing. Each spasm seemed more stubborn than the last, and there was nothing I could do to help. I had no water to offer, and the thought of telling her to "hold your breath" seemed too intrusive, too... well, forward. My introverted self-recoiled at the thought of speaking up.

Maybe it was something that happened to her often. Maybe she just randomly got hiccups like this, and I was fretting for no reason. It reminded me of my own strange affliction — how I, for reasons unknown to me, only ever got hiccups when I ate cold rice or, bizarrely, carrots. Who knows why these things happen?

We were packed like sardines in the back seat of the bus, the kind of tight squeeze that turns strangers into temporary companions in discomfort. Each time she hiccupped, the narrow space between us vibrated, her body shifting against mine with every jolt. And if it wasn’t her hiccups making us bump against each other, it was the driver’s reckless charge over the bumps, sending us momentarily airborne before we landed, awkwardly settling on each other’s hips.

But then, just as suddenly as it had begun, her hiccups stopped. No dramatic breath-holding, no desperate sipping of water, no bizarre tricks involving wet paper on the forehead. Just... silence. It left me baffled, curious even. I wanted to ask her how she did it — how she managed to silence the annoying spasms so effortlessly. But again, I hesitated. I didn’t want to invade her space or make her feel any more self-conscious than she already might have been.

My gaze wandered to the woman seated on my right, her eyes darting in our direction. Was she judging? Watching the poor girl with some kind of silent disapproval? Couldn't she cut her some slack? I imagined how mortified the girl must have been, her hiccups a small, uncontrollable spectacle for everyone in the immediate vicinity.

When I finally gathered enough courage to say something, it felt like the moment had passed. Instead, I let her be, hoping wherever she was now, she felt a little less embarrassed, a little lighter for having finally shaken those stubborn hiccups.