Waiting at a stop that doesn't exist

I'm standing at a bus stop with no sign, no schedule, just a concrete pad and a dead light. The map in my pocket shows it still, a small circle that means nothing to anyone else. I wait because waiting is the only proof that I was ever supposed to be here—and when the bus finally comes, I wake up before I get on. Lately I think that's the whole job: to stay at the places that already stopped mattering, just long enough to make them real again.