Five minutes later, I was getting in the bus. I paid my ticket and hurried down to the midsection of it, taking a seat right after the door in the middle.
I had gone shopping and was very pleased with what I got, particularly because I hate shopping but also because I never buy anything useful, if you know what I mean.
I spent a lot of money and I feel like my dad is going to kill me. I spent 48 dollars on makeup. Alone. Then the clothes. And the temporary tattoos. And of course, a necklace for prom. And I just remembered, I forgot to buy the actual prom dress. Can you see now? This is awful. I don't even know what to say to my father.
We were finally leaving the bus station, and a few people spread in the front, mostly seniors, were talking in raised voices. I could guarantee you that they had only just met. It's what I call bus buddies. I had a lot of them during middle school. But not now. Now, I keep myself to myself. Now, I close people out, and rarely let them in. Now, I sleep with my demons, and they don't wake me up at night anymore. Now, I found a way to live with my mistakes, even if it makes me feel awful, even if it feels like an axe is being pushed down my chest, making my bones crack, shattering my heart completely. Even if it makes me hate myself. I know the feeling. I feel it. I ignore it.
Just another day at the office.
The bus struggles to move forward, up to the bridge, making an obnoxious noise, so I fish out my earphones form my bag and let the music flow. I look out my window to the see the river and the big Atlantic ocean ahead. It's an amazing view, so I grab my phone and open Snapchat, an app to take pictures or videos, and take a picture of the view. There were a few small boats milling around, and the water was blue, clear blue.
A few moments later, we stop and I look outside, spotting a boy around my age coming for the bus. When he sees me, he rolls his eyes and I laugh discreetly, turning my head to the side. I was so used to this reaction from people that I didn't feel bad for myself. I didn't feel anything. I felt bad for them actually, because they lose the chance to meet an amazing human being like me. Not bragging or anything.
The first thing people notice in me is the hair. And of course, they judge me for it. I have three quarters of my head shaved, and the hair at the top reaches my chin. And it's pink.
I can feel you judging me. Stop. There's some truth to the amazing human being hiding beneath this mask of hair dye and black eyeliner. It's just buried so deep down that nobody can dig it up, and I don't bother showing it, because why show the best part of yourself if you don't have anybody to share it with? Useless.
The boy walks down the bus and chooses a seat three rows ahead of me, on the opposite side. He throws his backpack in and sits down. He literally threw his backpack. Like, really hard. Somebody's having a bad day.
I focus on the view outside my window and let my thoughts drift. I think about the clothes I bought, and the necklaces and about the wave of boredom hitting me fast, and I just know that if I don't find anything remotely interesting to do for the next hour and a half, I'm going to mentally die for the rest of the day. So I think of books, and I think of characters and of amazing plot stories, but nothing works.
I look at the boys' back and think about writing a scene. I don't feel inspired to write a fantasy or a romance scene though, the only two I'm used to do. So I start to write about the bus ride. I start with 'Five minutes later, I was getting in the bus' and I keep writing. I write about the people in the bus with me and about the secret I don't tell anybody and the black hole that is my soul, and I keep writing. I write about the boy that got in, and I write about the view with the river and the sea, and the small boats scattered about, and I feel good.
Right then, the boy gets up from his seat and walks to the door in the middle. The one right in front of me. I keep writing and I don't take my eyes away from the screen. When the bus stops, I look up just a bit, making eye contact with the seat across me, and see him from the top corner of my vision. He was looking at me but then he looked away probably thinking that I was going to look at him. Wrong, dude. He gets out of the bus, and I keep writing.
After an hour of writing, I stop and a memory floods my mind. I think about the girl I fell in love with. I think about the thing I love most in the world to hear: her laugh. And I think that I'm screwed. Utterly screwed, for loving her. I think about her hair and her eyes and her hands and her voice. I think about the way I want to memorize her beautiful face and paint it with all it's flawless details. That's one word for her: flawless.
I don't say her name, though. I never say her gorgeous name. I don't dare to say it, thinking that she'll be able to hear me miles away, from wherever she is and I'll see the disgust on her face, feel the denial, feel the awkwardness building up between us, and feel the pain. I'll feel the sanest part of my heart shatter in a million pieces and more. I'll feel the tears sliding down my face, and I'll feel the hopelessness around me, drowning me in a sea of tears, of fears and the last bit of hope slipping through my fingers like sand in a desert.
I never dare. I just dream. And my dreams are the bubble of happiness that I never pop. That I'm afraid of popping. That I close inside an iron box, with a lock that is my heart.
I think about the way my foolishness shows around her and the way I try to hide it. The way it seems the world is looking at me and seeing through the small cracks that show the truth.
But mostly, I think about the way she looks at me. Like she's daring me to say it. Like she's daring me to show her how I feel.
I almost give up and tell her. But I don't.
I never do.
I notice the sudden noise in the bus and look up only to find that we're stopped on a school. My former middle school. And the bus is being filled with the awful noise of children shouting to each other, and I feel each and every set of eyes land on me.
At this point, I was the only person in the bus. And my weirdness calls attention. I laugh when I see them take a picture of me. That's crime, you know, but I let it pass. It's not everyday that you see a crazy chick with shaved pink hair.
After fifteen minutes of laughing at people gawking at me, I get to my bus stop. There's barely anyone in the bus at this point.
I get up and walk out.
