Wild Hearts

Behind A Smile

His smile is nothing, if not irritating. I feel nauseous, and want nothing more than for him to just turn around and leave me to my solitude. Or better yet, for him to just get up and disappear from the bus as quickly as he materialised here.

Seriously, intimidating and handsome guy, why do you have to give me the creepy eyes? The mocking eyes.

It soon becomes clear he's going to say nothing, and I roll my neck, settling back into the seat. I try staring out the window, but I can still feel his eyes on me. It's like there's a fly on your cheek you just can't seem to get rid of. You could try and swat it away, but it always ends up buzzing back, finding a new way to annoy you.

I distract my mind with thoughts of butterflies. Specifically, dead butterflies. I didn't kill them, if that's what you're thinking. I'm not a monster. I just find dead—or alive beauty and I capture it. I guess you could say I'm kind of a collector. I don't see it that way. I preserve the stolen breaths of these gorgeous creatures. They're my secret, and that's the way I like it. I—

My eyes flicker over, just for a second, but it's enough. There they are, the grey, dangerous eyes. How odd; I didn't notice the colour before. Maybe... 

I'm getting distracted again.

It's kind of soothing, just watching the city zip by, lights merging: blues, oranges and all in between. And then his face, burning against the back of my eyes. It's so... boyish. A jawline to kill for, but there's a little roundness to his cheeks that underlines the narrowness of his eyes—it makes them pop that much more. Crescent-shaped lips. Why do I notice that?!

We pass the 'pulsing heart', alive with laughter and chinked glasses—the distant screams of cars screeching and tearing in violent street races. I can't hear these of course, but I see them, as weird as that sounds. I see, feel the music around me. The hideous choking of exhaust fumes; a symphony of traffic lights: red, amber, green; a drumbeat of shoulders knocking as a horde of pedestrians push past each other. There are many more sounds, millions upon millions, of course, but to think about all that would drive anyone mad.

OK, I swear he's smiling. He's smiling, isn't he? He's got this great big... stupid grin painted on his face. Dare I look? Do I give him the satisfaction...?

No. I'm above that. I...

Crap, I looked!

I can already feel my cheeks burning up, and I pull the hood tighter around my face. If I could swallow my whole face in the grey material, I would. Curse this guy and his morbid fascination with me. I haven't done anything to him. I glance over again. I scream in my head.

I feel like a kid next to him. I'm fifteen, practically an adult. I sometimes find chin hairs. I should be shaving soon. I'm becoming a man. But this guy's smirk cuts right through me.

This is ridiculous!

"What?" I grunt, shifting in my seat, crossing my arms in a defiant display. Usually, I'd avoid the other person, bury my face in my hoodie, otherwise I'll make a scene. I'm too loud, I gesture a lot. I get that. People stare. They point. Then they laugh, or they get angry. Or both. This guy is like the rest of them.

He says nothing, just grins and runs a hand through his hair, light sifting through revealing the golden hue beneath the dirty brown.

"What?" I repeat, gaining more confidence by the second, yet also equally losing it.

"Nothing," he says, resting an arm on the seat—his turn to act nonchalant. "Just curious, is all."

His voice is silky. He's definitely older, but not by much.