An old library somewhere with rows and shelves of books, hiding between Fantasy and Mystery, hiding from the crushing realisation that real life isn’t as good as fiction.
At the train station with my best friend trying to fit 4 years of life spent apart on different continents into a 30-minute conversation, jumbled dialogue about boarding school and xenophobia and first times and tattoos.
In my old bedroom with the big windows where the sun shines too brightly and I’ve got Sweet Valley High stickers on my sky blue wall.
A hotel room with a city view, white bed sheets and a soft white duvet that I can wrap myself around and forget all my hard edges.
Sitting outside the steps of my old college with my friends laughing, joking about boys we don’t have the guts to talk to and giving them stupid nicknames.
In the park, where I used to play watching the sun go down and not having to worry about the demons that come out at night.
At a bus stop waiting for a bus to take me somewhere far from here, someplace where nobody knows my name or where I’ve been.
In a car at night with the city lights blinding and Lana Del Rey telling me to ride till dawn like the road dogs do.
On a beach I’ve never been to, feeling the sand between my toes, hearing the roar of the ocean and hoping it’s just like I imagined.