The Writer

I reached into my rucksack to pull out my phone, but changed my mind. A notebook would be better. There was so much going on here - so many people.

I had three to choose from. Red, Amber, or Green? Things were happening, but I was sure they hadn't started properly yet. Amber would be best. Just getting going.

I flipped it open. They were all brand new books, with clean white pages.

Location: Bus, I wrote. Inhabitants: large variety. Species: invariable - human. Quickly I looked up. Was anyone looking at me? I sensed the driver's eyes in the mirror: she was looking at the girl in front of me, who met her eyes then looked back down to the sketchbook she was holding. I was safe.

Operation: keep out of sight. That was a bit of a misnomer. I didn't mind if people saw me - I just didn't want them to know what it was they were seeing.

A man walked past. He had a cool t-shirt on. I only wish it was true. Does he know that for some people, that sort of travel is possible? I doubt it. He smiled at me. I looked away.

There was nothing else to write. I looked out of the window, but in my opinion, all of earth looks the same. It's a pity they haven't invented space travel yet. It'll be a while before I get to see the stars again.

The End

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