3 A.M.

Seven people sit on a bus. Each occupied with their thoughts. The it girl, the enthusiastic girl with the orange hair, the quiet girl, the mysterious athlete boy, the sad girl, the nerdy boy, and myself. The writer. These are nothing but simplifications however. For example, the sad girl writes poetry. She dances. Is wonderful to talk to. She Feels. The mysterious athlete is in love with an Irish girl, knowing her only two weeks but absolutely struck with love. The way he smiles even makes the most empty of writers feel. I would know. The nerdy boy, he tells jokes, but doesn't seem to like the company of those not as reserved as himself. He likes his own loudness, but not the sound of others. Each person has their own lives, but for a shining moment (lasting about three hours) we are all nothing but tired children on a bus, illuminated in blue, reflecting our mood. We've grown close the past two weeks, we are a family of sorts. Eleven reduced to eight, which reduced to seven. Friends pulled apart by national borders, lovers pulled away, tears shed even now, no one truly wants to leave. The food the friendship the fun. Being free of responsibilities we have at home, of the people who hurt us. Here we are all just us. Age does not define us, where we are from doesn't separate us. We live as one. We are a family. And we are going our own ways once again. Our own Homes, our own Lives, our own Friends. And dear reader, this writer doesn't want to go back. This writer would love nothing more than to stay. Blue light illuminates seven people on a bus. Their lives as complex and magical as your own. The idle chatter of the driver to a separate passenger fills the silence from the seven. The sound of silence, fills the darkness.