It all started when a millionaire father asks his , Nope...scratch that
It all started when a millionaire father 'orders' his complex daughter who gets lost in her own thoughts to marry the son of his business partner . The key word here being compl...
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I had made peace with the fact that Nash wasn't going anywhere for a while. And it was fine. I relished that we didn't know anything about each other, and the anonymity granted me the super power to be whoever I wanted in front of him.
We had finally entered the bus again after spending almost all morning in the cafe. It was slightly heating up due to the hot afternoon sun. Janet and her husband whose name I had gotten to know was George was singing 'god bless america' at the top of their lungs as usual not giving a shit about the people in their surroundings giving them the stink eye.
I had observed every single person who had climbed aboard the bus now. There was Janet and George, then there was the muscly protein shake guy, there was the shady sunglasses wearing lady, a kid who was traveling with his mom and a man in a suit who took his briefcase everywhere.
Amongst all these diverse people were Nash and I two strangers who came together by a twisted turn of fate. I had concluded that him and I had a silent form of understanding which made me feel comfortable in his presence.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning's poem had constantly been swimming around in my head. I didn't remember the whole thing but a few of the lines were.
'let my tears drop like amber while I go; in reach of the divinest voice complete'
It was a beautiful poem like fire but only ashes of that fire remained in my memory now. I wondered how even I would become just a small blip in someone's conscious merely remembered when the word anxious or weird came up. What a lame way to exist.
I am often judged on the basis of how i was left by this guy and now I don't trust anyone. People often think that my prior relationship seems to be the reason that broke me. But that's untrue.
Ever since I was five years old, the sense of self has been unclear to me. I remember whenever I got hurt I would never cry because I would imagine myself as a character in a book or a movie not a real person, and this assumption had carried on even as I grew up.
My brain was probably messed up ever since I cried after being released from the warmth of my mother's womb.
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We were driving through Kutztown right now, a minor town with a population of 6000 according to the welcome board. Our trip to the Allentown Museum had been canceled because Mr. briefcase said he was getting delayed for some conference in Strausstown. It was around six in the evening. Nash and I passed time by sleeping and playing 'I spy with my eye' . Which we significantly sucked at because the bus was moving too fast to detect anything outside.
The sun had finally set sealing a full whole day away from home, or at least a place I had called home for a long while but had never felt like it.
The bus was quiet except for the occasional snores here and there. It was as if everybody was mourning the sun's departure.
I always liked the day better because as night approached I realized how normal other people were. They didn't fear sleep, I did.
"Hey Nash..." he opened his eyes and shifted his head towards me.
