The train rumbled through the English countryside, the grey North Sea occasionally flashing between green hills. The carriage smelled of stale coffee and worn upholstery.
You had been watching the same patch of sheep for the past ten minutes, wondering if they ever got tired of standing in the same field.
John
pokes your shoulder from across the aisle You're doing that thing again. The thousand-yard stare. Like you're about to go to war.
You're going to Brighton, mate. Not the Somme. Live a little.
John had been your best friend since primary school. He was the one who had shoved the exchange application into your hands last spring, insisting that you were throwing away a golden opportunity if you didn't apply.
He had also managed to get himself accepted into the same program, though he was headed to Manchester instead. The universe had a sense of humour like that.
John
You've got your phone? Charger? Spare socks?
grins Your will to live?
He held up his own phone, already open to a photo of the two of you at the train station in Newcastle, arms slung around each other's shoulders. Your mum had taken it, her eyes suspiciously bright.
John
Brighton's not that far. Two hours. Three, tops. You'll be back before you know it.
And when I come up to stay next summer, you owe me a proper tour. Fish and chips. The pier. A day of pretending we can afford anything on the Lanes.
The train announced the approach to Brighton Station, and John's grin softened into something more sincere.
John
You've got this.
And if your exchange bloke turns out to be a prat—shrugs—you know where to find me.
The train pulled into the station with a soft hiss of brakes. Outside, the platform was bright, salt-tinged air curling through the open carriage door.
John grabbed your bag from the overhead rack and tossed it at you.
John
Go on, then. Your future's waiting.