Page 2 of I Hear You

This mantra has been playing on repeat in my head for the last hour. There’s a pit in my stomach the size of an avocado and I spent half the morning dry heaving. The seat creaks as I move around in it, trying to get comfortable, when I realize I’ve sat in gum. Great, these are new pants. Well, new to me anyway. They’re from a second-hand store. I hadn’t spent money on clothes in areallylong time, but last week I finally decided to treat myself. This new adventure deserves new pants, is what I told myself. Unconvincingly reasoning with myself isn’t something I shy away from when necessary.

The restaurant where I worked let me pick up extra shifts so I could tuck away some cash. It wasn’t much after the expenses of moving across the country. Even with the extra shifts, flying, as opposed to taking the bus, wasn’t an option. Now I’m suffering in the heat, with gum on my new pants.

I dig around in my backpack for a napkin, and start trying to pry off the gum. Most of it comes off onto the napkin and it’s at least not sticky anymore. My shirt should be long enough to hide the stain when I stand up. I need to avoid drawing attention to myself as the new girl. Being the normal, average girl would be ideal. My desire to have an ordinary college experience is ardent. Enjoy my classes, study, and maybe make a few friends–that’s the current agenda.

The gum isn’t even the most irritating thing right now; it’s unbearably hot on this bus. The air conditioning stopped working a couple hundred miles ago. Even with all the windows open as far as they’ll go, the smell of everyone's body odor is getting stronger. A toddler a few rows back is hating the heat more than I am. His mom has him stripped down to just his diaper, but he’s still fussing.

At this point, I’m just thankful the seats on the bus aren’t sold out and I’m alone in this row. Otherwise, I’d be stuck rubbing against someone's sticky arms. Instead, I have the entire seat next to me to prop my leg up on and use my backpack on it as a barrier between me and everyone else.

The map on my phone says there are only two hundred and forty miles to go. Two hundred and forty miles until I become just another face in the crowd at Pinehurst College. Where no one knows me, where no one knows my past, where no one will look at me with pity or judgment. Two hundred and forty miles until I can sleep in an actual bed, even if it is a crappy dorm room twin mattress. It will still be an upgrade from the couches I’ve been surfing and damn near luxury compared to sleeping sitting up, with one eye open, in the mall parking lot alcove.

I open my email app and re-read the acceptance letter for the last time. Just to make sure it wasn’t a fever dream and I’m not wasting my time on this hot, smelly bus.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Date: January 18 09:15

Subject: Application Decision

Dear Madison Cartwright,

It is with great pleasure that we would like to inform you of your acceptance at Pinehurst College of Easton, Maryland. We are pleased to offer you an academic scholarship; including housing and meal allowance, for a minimum of one year. Subsequent years’ housing stipend is to be evaluated at a later date.

Please contact us at your earliest convenience to accept admission and plan the bright future we know you have.

Sincerely,

Pinehurst College

Pinehurst isn’t a well-known college by any stretch of the imagination, but it’s got an amazing writing program, and the best part–it’s nearly three thousand miles away from home. Easton is a town smaller than I’m used to, which is saying something. Oceanside, the town I grew up in, only has a population of ten thousand. But Easton being small means not owning a car shouldn’t be an issue.

Before I’m tempted to check myotheremail account, I tuck my phone into my bag. The email account that receives emails from only one sender outside of the occasional spam message. I finish zipping my bag before I do what I told myself I’d stop doing and read his email–his last email. Self-control is something I’m working on. I don’t even need to see the email, though. It’s ingrained in my mind, committed to memory. I must have read it thirty times the day he sent it.

My phone is safely tucked away now, preventing me from writing the millionth draft to him. The outbox currently holds over a hundred drafts. Some are drafts in response to his last email. Others are just telling him things that made me happy, sad or angry throughout my day. Some drafts don’t even acknowledge any of the questions I left unanswered and are just catching him up on mundane aspects of my life. I write the drafts and pretend for a moment we never stopped talking. I told myself I was going to stop writing the draft emails; I was going to move on. Even now, sitting on this hot, smelly bus, it’s easy to think back to the last email he sent. His last plea for a response.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Date: October 15 19:27

Subject: Is this the end?

Mads,

I told myself I would stop emailing you. That I would move on and give you the space you’re so clearly demanding by not responding to me.

Sometimes I wish I could go back in time a few months. It’s been over 2 months since I’ve heard from you. I hope you’re okay.

I don’t regret telling you what I’ve been wanting to tell you for years. There’s a lot I regret, but sending you that email isn’t one of those regrets.

Madison, I am sorry. I’m sorry it changed everything. I miss you.

Yours.

Ender

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