We’re on the fucking bus again because we’re seventeen. Thom’s mad at me again because I said something wrong or looked at him funny or happened to exist in his line of vision. My bad. I can’t remember why I bother to try. I’m not supposed to feel this tired.
Somebody’s talking to me. It might be Thom or it might be anybody else on this bus. I’ve got my headphones on and my eyes shut and it’s no problem to ignore. I’m listening to Stevie Wonder so fuck you. And it’s beautiful and I’m gone.
After a while I open my eyes and it doesn’t bother me that the first thing I see is Thom in his seat across the aisle. He’s set in stone and the world is blurring past. I think there’s a good chance this might not be an illusion after all. You tell me.