-Mike Posner
We’re driving back and the bus is moving surprisingly fast, fenced acres rushing by my patterned window seat at ten miles over the speed limit. I’m listening to some music, my probably-un-polarized-five-dollar sunglasses fitted over the scratchy upper-crevices of my ears.
Almost everyone else on the bus is asleep, the spray-paint counselors and the yellow-bandana campers alike, leaving me alone in the consciousness of the bus, with thoughts, sweat, and the screams of a particularly-angry Eminem on my iPod all to myself.
And then, in the very depth of my air-conditioned contemplation, I notice to my left, across the long expanse of the aisle the girl that I nervously two-stepped with the night before, also awake, staring blue-eyed deeply past the thick, mirrored lenses of my sunglasses, trying to figure out if I am awake or asleep, apparently unaware that I am just silently gazing out the Windexed mirror behind her, watching the trees blurrily sprint by, forcing myself to ignore her and her gaze and her cautious red lip smile.
I don’t dare talk to her. I don't dare let the girl who I admittedly think looks great in a sundress know who I am or where I am from or what my major is or my life story or my deepest fears. I don’t dare let myself become that vulnerable once again so quickly after less than a week of faked collegiate situations.
It is because I’m not ready for any of this, any of these new interactions, any of these new girls, any of these long crushes and crushed longings. I’m only ready to watch it all pass me by on this charter bus of the next four years: disappearing trees and first blue-eyed loves alike speeding by in equal time.
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