Not All Those Who Wander Are Lost

THE subway rumbled with intent. It had a direction and a purpose, something that she lacked.

She sighed, gaze lifting briefly from the phone in her hands to the teen sitting across from her, books spread across his lap.

Studying at the last moment no doubt. His eyes were bleary, hands raising every now and again to rub away lingering sleep. Palms dug harshly into eyeballs.

Oh but to be 18 again. When the future was fresh and bright and unknown.

How a small part of her longed for those seemingly endless days full of drinking and laughter and last-minute cramming for exams, peppered with long hot summers.

She could still hear the bass thumping in her ears, the feeling of warm hands at her waist and the taste of whisky kisses lingering on her tongue.

The subway came to an abrupt halt.

She watched as the teen collected his books, mashing his crumpled notes together and shoving them into the black bag at his feet. And then he was gone.

And the subway went on.

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