Going Home

         She felt her head loll to the left against the cold, glass window pane. The vibrations shook her head, cheek smearing against the window. A loud thump from the back of the bus shook her awake, and her eyes flew open.
         ‘Ah that’s right,’ she remembered, straightening herself up in the uncomfortable seat. ‘I’m on a Greyhound.’ She heaved a heavy sigh, and lounged back in the seat as far as the passenger behind her permitted. Unsure of how much time had elapsed since she was last awake, she checked her cell phone. 9:30 AM. It had been less than a half an hour since she last looked. The unending bus ride wasn’t as bad as people had told her—it was actually, oddly enough, almost serene.
         No one had bothered her as soon as she boarded at 12AM. Some of the passengers were rather lively, riding hours and hours before then. Others were out as soon as the bus pulled out of the terminal. She had put in her earphones and listened to her iPod, recounting her last few hours as she glanced out at the darkness.
         Every once in awhile, she would ask the lady next to her a question, but on the whole, she kept to herself. The deep thought she found herself in wasn’t new: she had often pulled her mind into the trance-like state, forced into past reflection over things she wish she should have said or done—like everyone does. It must have been the quiet atmosphere of the bus ride that brought her to self-reflection, but she never grew tired of it.
         When her thoughts became too deep, she would force herself to think of why she was on the bus: going home for three weeks—Holiday Break. Perhaps this would be the opportunity she needed. A time to fully contemplate the past few months, to make a plan of action, and to become full rejuvenated. As much as she thought about, she wondered why she hadn’t developed any sort of ulcer or mental disorder. Or maybe, it was a mental disorder. Being too self-conscious? Nah.
         As she continued to look out the window, she became fully aware of the other people on the bus. She didn’t have to look at them—it was a mixture of smells. Someone would spray some sort of perfume or cologne every once in awhile; once to cover the smell of a lit cigarette and more often than not, the smell of the small restroom in the back of the bus.
         Looking around, she spotted an old man lounging in his seat, covered by a red plaid jacket, glasses knocked askew—and snoring loudly. He reminded her of a grandfather. Maybe he was going home to see his grandchildren for Christmas.
         There was a boy that looked to be in his late teens two seats behind the old man. He looked a bit nervous. His large coat seemed to swaddle him in material protection. The boy held his backpack close to his chest.
         As she looked towards the front the bus, she could only see about eight or nine heads—some leaning against the windows, others leaned back; no doubt still asleep. There wasn’t much else to do on the bus.
         She looked back out the window to her left, and watched as the fog rolled in. The high hills across the highway reminded her of Virginia. There was a time she recalled running away from a hurricane with her family and they went north though Georgia, South and North Carolina, and then into Virginia. She remembered the rising elevation and fog that swept in as the sun rose. Though she internally rejoiced at the sight of the hills and mountains, another part of her became nervous and anxious. Virginia, though the state of her birth, didn’t exactly bring the greatest thoughts to mind. A bitterness arose within her—here in the bus—at that thought. Remembering seeing her father again for the first time in 3 years in Virginia clawed at her heart, and her mental switch turned to something else.
         Try as she might, she couldn’t stop thinking. What else was there to do when you couldn’t sleep? Her iPod, full of thought-provoking songs, switched to “Landslide,” sung by Stevie Nicks. Her heart quickened, and she began to think of her friends back at the university.
         So much had happened this semester. It had been what she tried to prevent herself from thinking about—delving deeper into. Her latest thought was at the Greyhound Station at midnight. Her roommate had driven her there—an iciness in the air on the way to the station. A previous argument in the day had prevented them from being completely amiable. Once they arrived at the station and she retrieved her ticket, she continued to protest to her friend that she need not stay—everything was alright; the population within the station didn’t look like rapists. Her friend refused, and sat on one of the benches reading a book for her exam in nine hours.
         She turned away from her friend and looked at her cell phone. She yearned to talk to her, to apologize once again for all that she had put her through that semester, but she had learned that apologies meant very little anymore coming from her. Apologizing all the time made new ones empty and worthless.
         As she thought more about it, why apologize? Anytime she felt the need to do, it was always over telling the truth or being too open. Could she be faulted for that? For being herself? But that wasn’t even really it. As close as they had become over the last few months, there was a sense of repulsion from her friend. She knew why, and yet her friend always declined that that was the reason.
         Every time her thoughts strayed back to the situation, the purpose, the reason all the awkwardness between them occurred, she still felt like putting a gun in her mouth. How could she have thought it okay—okay to tell her that she, in fact, had stronger feelings than friendship for her? To tell her that, not only did she suspect herself to be—at times—attracted to other women, but the object of her affection was in fact her friend.          
         She could, without a doubt, say that was one of the biggest mistakes in her life. But aren’t we supposed to learn from mistakes? Move on. And she had tried.
         She went to counseling and spilled her soul to a complete stranger, which she found no trouble in doing with anyone anymore. She told her she didn’t know how to exercise discretion anymore that she felt she had completely bared herself to someone and felt so vulnerable. And that, though arguments occurred, could it really be because of this one conversation? She knew it to be true—and could only move on.
         Of the three times she had been to the counseling center on campus, she always left feeling empowered, and full of hope to live on another day. But every time she returned back to the dorm, another argument ensued within days. Sure, everyone gets in arguments, but why the fuck was it so often?
         That, she told herself, was why she wanted to go home. To get away from the conflicts, emotion, pain, tears, and excessive thoughts she had wasted in that situation, and on a person she wouldn’t give a damn about 5 years from now. But also—as per the suggestion of her counselor—to bring the situation up to her family. But she knew, deep down, she couldn’t do it.
         And as she again slid her head to the left onto the cold window pane, she imagined what her friend was doing at that second. Taking a test, probably. Rushing through an essay she had to bullshit because she constantly procrastinated in her course readings.
         But, nobody’s perfect.