I'm not gonna write this story

A bus, yellow because buses are yellow where I come from. 
A yellow bus waiting at the bus station. It leaves two minutes past. It's two minutes to three in the afternoon. The passengers have found a seat. Nobody is late for this bus. The next will be in an hour. 
A young girl has chosen a seat in the driver's side. She has got music in her ears, she doesn't look out, she is busy with her iPod.
The other five sit in the opposite side, evenly spread. Two men and three women, or three men and two women. No one could tell if they were asked an hour later.
They might as well get off. There is nobody at the busstation, just a child looking around as searching for something. She is too young to take the bus alone.
The surroundings are pretty. You have lengthy fields, mostly wheat and grass that year. At the end of your gaze the beech wood, a marvel of green, from inside the bus of course you don't see it. The waiting, that's what you see. 
The child is waiting to come out of hiding. She found a perfect place. The wheel is big and shady, bigger than her when she sits like that, crumpled up in front of the wheel. Her heart beats rapidly, she is always so exited, when she has found a really good hiding place. She can see the boy's feet. If he bent, he would see her right away. She knows, he won't bend because it seems like there is no place to hide.
Purple Rain goes on and on. It's like a chapter in a book. You have time to forget a whole world or you can go to the end of it. The young girl smiles. Prince softens her mouth into that little smile, a little dream, a memory. The movement of the bus, the beech, she sees it now. She even says goodbye to the driver as she gets off.
I'm not gonna write this story.
It's possible the young girl would remember a jolt, like hitting the curb and she would think of it as nothing but a curb as the driver would. I don't wan't them to be aware of any such thing. It's too late.