Little Things

I see him every morning, sitting at the bus stop outside my window. He catches the 73 at the same time every day. I don't know if he's noticed me or not. People look out of windows more than they look in, don't they? It seems nosier to look in than out. I wonder why that is?

He's not at the bus stop yet. But it's only five past nine. I came back from breakfast early, worried that I'd miss him. Silly isn't it? His bus doesn't even come until quarter past. Sometimes I get nervous just waiting for him to come, like I'm on a blind date. That's silly, isn't it?

I haven't told anyone here that I watch him. They'd just worry. They'd think that I was going to try and hurt him or something stupid like that. But I've never wanted to hurt anyone else. They all say they understand, but they don't. None of them.

Like when the nurse came in a couple of weeks after I first got here. She was only about my age, a year older maybe. She took one look at me, at the bandages on my arms, and she said, 'Why does a pretty girl like you want to do that to herself?'

I just looked out of the window. I didn't say anything. I don't anymore. There's no point. They only think you're lying anyway. And so I keep quiet. It's best that way. Well, most of the time. Sometimes though, like today, I feel like a jug that's filling up, just filling up with words and thoughts that are going to come spilling out at any moment.

And then I look at him at the bus stop and I think that he's the person I'd like to spill my thoughts onto. I'd like to drench him in everything I'm holding in.

I know it sounds silly, but I think I can trust him. He looks like someone people tell things to, like someone who's holding loads of secrets. He looks like he's sensitive, thoughtful. He wears cords and he's got a 'Make Love Not War' sign on his bag. It's little things, I know, but it's something all the same. Everything's made up of little things.

I remember when I was younger, years and years before all this happened, and mum took us to a museum somewhere. I don't remember what else was there, all I can remember is a huge picture of Donald Duck.

I said, 'Look at that picture.' And mum said, 'Go and look at it up close.'

Sam and I walked over and we looked at it. It was behind glass which had tiny handprints all over it.

'It's all jelly beans,' Sam said. She didn't sound impressed at all. 'It's made out of jelly beans.'

She walked back to mum and I stood there looking at the picture of Donald Duck, at all the jelly beans that made him up. Yellow, blue, red, green. I thought that was one of the best things I'd ever seen, and all the rest of the day I wondered how they'd managed to make him look exactly the same as he does in the cartoons.

Sometimes, when I look at the man at the bus stop, I think like that. I think about all the little things that make him who he is. I think about where he went to school, about who his best friend was, what his favourite film is, what book he's reading at the moment. I think about how he holds his knife and fork, about which side of the bed he sleeps on and whether he uses the shower gel or the shampoo first. I think about what the first tape he bought was.

I think about all these things, and I know it's silly. But it gets me through the day. It gets me through the day because I want to find all these things out.

I can see him coming now. He's jeans with the right knee torn. I’ve seen them before. Oh god, I should look away. He's going to see me. I should look away, but I can't, I just can't. He's getting closer. He's getting closer. Oh god, he's looking in. He's seen me. He's seen me and-, and he's smiling. He's smiling at me.

He's smiling at me.

And I'm smiling back.