Bus Ride Home

Bus Ride Home

The sunlight tickled my left eyebrow, as I lay my heavy head deeper into the fur hood of my winter coat. It was almost as if the golden light was grazing my face with its fingertips, causing me to wince and sneeze a little. Allergies. 

I sense the middle-aged woman behind me flinch ever so slightly as I shudder from my sneeze, and I apologize in my mind, ‘Sorry woman, but don’t worry, I don’t have Corona,’ then I catch myself thinking, ‘-but I might as well, if every other day of my life turns out as miserable as this one,’ But of course, it’s just a split-second thought, I’d never die because I’m too weak and too strong at the same time. On days like this, a woman’s got to remind herself that there are things to live for and live by, there are tasks to be done, there are people to be met and dreams to be ravished and places to be conquered and- 

-my phone shudders too, I frown as I grudgingly pull it out of my coat pocket, careful as so not to pull too hard on the wire(wireless earphones just don’t make sense to me – or so I tell myself whenever I check my card receipts every now and then), and I raise my eyebrows intentionally as I read- ‘Konni Kim. here’s the password. Bye.’ I mean, three years together and that’s how we’re going to address each other now that we’re done? Come on, this isn’t 1970. 

It sucks enough that I had to ask my ex for the password to our joint webdrive, but what sucks more is having to rummage through 9,476 haunting files to pick out my own photos from the stack of remains of what used to be a relationship. Why is it that love makes us do stupid things like share a fucking webdrive? Never making that mistake again. 

Love sucks, I think as I try to push out any recurring images of him with his new girlfriend, telling myself it’s over and it’s not worth it, it’s not like you were going to marry him in the end anyways, it was a tied up knotted no-good situation and this was going to happen one way or another, but then all the ‘what if’ arguments start boring a hole in my head, asking me ‘what if you had somehow held on’ and ‘what if you had been a better person’ and-

-my misery debate is interrupted by the announcement of the bus telling me I’m home. 

Copyright, all rights reserved, konnikim.com

A short story about writing, stories, and high school, told by a teenage fashion blogger.

The following excerpt is part of a story I’m writing. If it goes well, I’m hoping to publish it. Please, please, please leave comments below and give me some feedback-any honest thoughts will do, whether it’s praise or criticism or any random thought. Thank you. Do not copy any of the following content on this post without the permission of Konni Kim.

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People don’t usually take me for the outgoing, opinionated type. I don’t think they reckon I have anything that interesting to say. Or maybe it’s because I’m not your typical crowd-pleaser type girl.

So I’m just going to shut up and write silently, while everyone else is beating each other up with their witty remarks and noses held high. I’ll just take them apart, one by one, little by little, word for word, until they realize I’ve been watching the whole time. It will hit them like a wrecking ball one day-that my watchful stare didn’t mean nothing. It meant I was observing, waiting for my time to come. They’ll learn that while they were feeling smug about being users and not ‘the used’, I was laughing along with them, but at something much funnier.

I’m using them all as props for my story. I’ll get paid for publishing. I’ll create the world. They’re merely puppets as far as I’m concerned. In my world, I can send them to Pluto or make them lick my feet. Who says reality has to dominate? What everyone wants is a story, whether it’s real or fake. We watch movies, we read, we tell historical tales. The media exaggerates and lies, and we’re forced to spin stories to tell on our college admission forms.

It’s the high school scene that craves for a story most longingly, in a brutal, unforgiving way. So many little cults with different ideologies, packed into tiny compartments where judgement awaits…

It’s pressure that creates the need for a story. Pressure from all angles-parents, peers, school, teachers… No wonder no one here can sit still for even a moment. Prep schools are the worst. Not any old story will do for the stuck-up cliques of prep school.

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This post(the piece of writing above) is not necessarily based on myself, or my own experiences.