Selfish Appetite [5 Seconds of Summer]

[2]

"Life is made of ever so many partings welded together."

- -

Sloan

At 8:09 in the morning, I am greeted by the suffocating crush of the city bus, packed to capacity with commuters who, like me, are running on caffeine and resignation.

The stale air is thick with too many competing scents—cheap cologne, damp wool, and the unmistakable tang of coffee gone lukewarm. I barely step inside before being shoved deeper into the throng, my shoulder bumping into a woman clutching a tote bag.

A brief accident, nothing worth noting—except she apparently disagrees.

She levels a pointed glare at me, willing me to acknowledge her indignation. When I don't, when I keep my gaze trained forward and focus on adjusting my left earbud—the one that refuses to stay put—she huffs dramatically and stalks to the back of the bus, muttering under her breath.

I smirk, victorious, and flick to the next song.

But then I feel it—eyes on me, insistent and unrelenting.

I debate ignoring it. One tense interaction this morning is enough. But before I can stop myself, my head snaps up.

My gaze collides with his.

The man across from me grips the overhead bar, his knuckles taut as the driver takes a too-sharp turn, seemingly unbothered by the hundred lives he's responsible for.

The man doesn't move his stare right away, and I arch an eyebrow in silent question. That's enough to break his focus. He looks away, then promptly steps off at the next stop.

I watch as he disappears into the crowd, his broad shoulders swallowed by the morning bustle. Just before the bus pulls away, I catch him embracing someone outside the small corner café.

I know that café. I used to go there before I blacklisted it—too close to Ian's place.

A shame, really. The coffee was spectacular.

Fallen leaves scatter beneath my boots, their crisp edges crunching as I weave through the damp pavement on my way home from class. Last night's rain has left a slick sheen on the sidewalks, and I tread carefully, unwilling to be the tragic protagonist of someone's viral video.

There are days when my neighborhood feels like home. Today isn't one of them.

The street is lined with townhouses, each uniquely adorned—string lights draped over railings, mismatched planters spilling with autumn chrysanthemums.

But no matter how charming, no matter how cozy, it's not mine.

Some days, I still expect to open my eyes and see my childhood garden, my mother's white picket fence, the sun-bleached red mailbox.

Some days, I miss it so fiercely that it feels like I'm missing a part of me.

"Honey, I'm home." I call, already knowing my grandmother won't answer.

Thursdays mean she's at Flo's, drinking something she'll insist is "innocent" despite the suspiciously large pour her friend always offers.

I met Flo at fourteen. We'd just lost my dad, and Flo had been relentless in her support, visiting daily. At first, I couldn't stand her—too blunt, too irreverent, always saying the most inappropriate things.

Now, I wouldn't trade her for the world.

"Oh, Sloanie, come, come! We're in the living room."

My grandma's voice startles me.

She's home. And—judging by the extra pair of shoes at the door—she's not alone.

I step into the living room and stifle a smirk. Anthony is here. Again.