A Photo Kiss on the Day We Met
I’m sitting in a train station about to go to Manchester and what have I decided to do? Write about 2009 phan until my laptop dies, of course.
The train station is filled with a constant hum of voices, from milling conversations to echoing announcements, but Dan barely hears them anymore. They’d become ignored white noise hours ago.
He gulps, jiggling his leg (a nervous reflex) and his thumbs dance over his iPod screen, constantly skipping every song that appears on shuffle because nothing feels right and he can’t concentrate on one song for more than ten seconds.
He settles for a different distraction, pulling out his phone and hastily tapping back replies to texts from family members he should’ve answered hours ago – yes, he’s got to Euston alive, yes he’s had something to eat, and yes he’ll be careful and won’t get pickpocketed.
(Yes, he’s eighteen and not eight, he’d felt like adding).
He glances up at the notice boards, although by this point he’s pretty sure the neon glow of orange writing against the black background is pretty much engraved behind his eyelids with the amount he’s been looking at it.
But his platform hasn’t been announced yet, and he’s nervous.
Nervous being the most astronomical understatement – he’d lied to his mother about the food because he’s pretty sure anything he’d eat will just come straight back up. He doesn’t do nerves, he can’t handle pressure and stress well (the incident during the Nativity play when he was nine years old still haunts him to this day), and although he’s sure he’d chosen the safe route by turning away from the coffee and pastry stall, his vision still swims with hunger.
But it’s worth it, he decides – at least worth more than running off the stage crying the last time he’d been this stressed, but he really doesn’t need to think of that now on top of anything else. He gulps, glancing up at the row of notice boards for what has to be the fifty-seventh time, and his heart thuds.