Marc

I always feel like one of many, standing here in queues like this. Just another person, travelling to and fro, getting along with my life, meeting with these other people at this one point and never talking. I think about how much I could learn from these people. Who are their family? Are they happy to be here? Who do they miss right now? All I see from staring is the same thing from person to person; a monotone, blank face, boarding pass in one hand, coffee cup in the other. They're just statues, statues that could be unfrozen if I willed it.

I try so hard to talk to them. My skin is too think to let the real me burst out; the me that nobody sees. Mum says I give people dirty looks, and that's why I never make a good first impression anymore. I put them off before I've even met them.

It all started weeks ago, when my friends started dating each other. Boys and girls I grew up with now had something really big in their lives; something more important than friends. A soul mate, someone you you would give your life for. I wouldn't give my life for anyone, and perhaps that's why we all fell out. The loneliness cased me like a cocoon, whilst everybody else was out living their best life. I got violent, and I ended up fighting at school, something I'd never done before. I broke my best friend's nose. I remember how it felt; the crunch of the bone, the slick of the dark blood on my fingers, the horror of realising what I had done. That was when I decided that a bit of loneliness might work in my favour. A trip to a foreign land, unknown to me, full of wonder, away from worry and wrong doing. So, as I stand in line for the coach in St Malo, I wonder what unknown treasures await me here.

It's early morning now, so I can't see anything around the dock. Seagulls call softly, and the water laps gently below the boat as I wait in my queue of questions with other people also looking for the absolute cheapest way to travel. The winter air bites at my soft skin as I check my boarding pass over and over to make sure everything is correct. I can't go back now. Not as I am.

Just after my fingers start to go stiff from the cold, pinching my pass, an alarm goes off somewhere on the deck, multiplying off every metal wall. Walkie-Talkies scream from the hips of reluctant men and women in high-visibility jackets as they walk past machines making noises that nobody ever wants to hear, let alone at this time in the morning. A droopy woman appears to collect our passes, as we all try to blow some feeling into our fingers. At least I know we're all human. I move my sore legs forward for the first time in what feels like the entire night, and try to think of the warm coach that I can sleep in. It's a six hour trip, so we'll meet the morning sun in Paris. Sleep is paramount; I need to clear my head for this trip. As soon as I come back, I'll be nice and kind, but most importantly, I'll be boyfriend material. Everyone will like me, and I will appreciate a soul mate after spending so long alone. I've already impressed myself at my organisational skills. I booked a whole weeks stay in a hotel, all by myself, no help from Mum or Dad. My whole bag was packed by me. This is my trip, and nobody is here to get in my way.

The boat journey was calmer than I thought; leaving the island at 9pm, stopping at various other places before arriving at the west coast of France. I had an entire row to myself, so I could lie down and stretch myself out. I even slept, which I never do unless I'm in my own bed. I hugged my rucksack when I did, just to make sure that nobody stole anything. Not that I have anything worth stealing. I'm hoping the coach will be warm and cosy, with curtains and soft chairs, so I can sleep even more. I need the sleep; it's bound to be a busy trip.

A gentle wind nips at my cheeks as I awkwardly feel for my phone in Dad's oversized black coat. The jet black coach sits ominously in front of some innocent-looking cafes, which are shrouded in darkness. The queue for the coach is long, longer than I expected it to be. Once again, they stand as statues, their regular, steaming breath on the cold air being their only sign of life as we're waved onto the coach. As usual, I avoid conversation and stand discreetly at the back of the line, blending into the night behind me.