1.2 The Chronicles of Us - Rewound & Retold

Chapter eleven

I wake too soon. That dreamless sleep was very welcome. Unfortunately, now that I'm awake, I have to deal with reality. I'm not ready, yet, so I stay in my bunk a while longer. I don't wanna see her face. I don't wanna feel regret and disappointment. In fact, I don't wanna feel a damn thing.

When my bladder pressures me to take a piss, I get outta bed and into the bathroom. Once bodily relieved, I brush my teeth and run water down my face. It would be great if I could find a trick to get rid of that pressure on the left side of my chest too.

I stare at myself in the small mirror above the sink and let images of Ellie pass through my mind. Whenever I detect the slightest hint of softness in my features, I slap myself in the face.

Crazy? Definitely.

It only takes two times, though. My midnight brooding toughened me up sufficiently. Satisfied with my bitter mindset, I leave the small space to find better company. Ellie not being on that list, obviously.

The whole fucking crew sits upfront, divided over two aligning booths. Ellie has an aisle seat, right in the middle of everyone. Avoiding her won't be easy.

Don't look at her.

Don't look at her.

Walking up to them, I try very hard not to and fail miserably. She smiles timidly at me, a set of big eyes holding my gaze. Her face is so fucking sweet, I might have to make an appointment with my dentist.

I suppress punching myself in the face. Slapping was clearly not enough. I'm not falling for her witchcraft.

I force my focus to Roy, who's sitting next to her in the other booth, and ask, "What did I miss?"

He nods at the empty Subway-wrappers on the table. "You missed breakfast. I thought it would be best not to wake you. Figured you could use the sleep considering—" his voice drops in decibels, as if to be inconspicuous. "—today."

The fuck?

Did Ellie tell him about last night's argument? Is that why he thinks I need sleep? That loudmouth little—

"I saved you one. Turkey, no olives. Right?"

The sound of her voice is so pleasant to my ears, I wanna throw myself off the bus or, preferably, under it. Unwillingly yet undeniably, my eyes find her.

She holds up a 6 inch-sub and I'm so mad at how pretty she looks, I can't even think of a dirty joke. Her other hand is curled up in the crook where her shoulder meets her neck. Does she know how her eyes are like big, hopeful forest lakes?

Why's that?

Whoa-ho.

Back the fuck up. I'm not getting into that. Witchcraft, for sure.

I snatch the sandwich from her hand, ignoring her shocked face, and then snap to no one in particular, "I'll be at the back. Don't disturb me."

On my way, I grab my headphones and my notebook. When I sit down where I sat last night, I quickly choose a Hatebreed album on Spotify and let their music fuel my anger. A feeling I understand, my natural state of being. This is better. This is what I know.

While eating my sub, I flip through my notebook. It's basically a collection of random thoughts and lyrics. The last thing I wrote was before Ellie. Something about shadows of winter. A terrible attempt at being poetic. It's strange, though, how I've been thinking about spring these last days.

Fuck spring.

I scribble-scratch down some words. Hateful ones, bitter ones. Words turn into sentences and, apparently, I'm inspired enough to fill an entire page with them. Once done, I reread my work and then huff forcefully when I reach the bottom.