To the streets, he was Reckless.
Short-tempered, hot-headed Reckless.
Yes, to the streets, he was Reckless.
But to her, he was Nehemiah.
And all they needed was each other.
𝕸𝖚𝖑𝖑𝖆
𝙎𝙤𝙪𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙩 𝙇𝙤𝙣𝙙𝙤𝙣 𝙗𝙖𝙨𝙚𝙙.
Previously titled All...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
I sit, patiently, tapping the toes of my Vans against each other and blowing raspberries as I wait. I try not to slouch, but after a minute or so I can't help myself. My palms are flat against the cold surface I sit on, inches away from my bum, so my back and my shoulders lean further away from my hips, instead of parallel to them. Every few seconds, a passer-by steps over my outstretched legs, but I still don't bring myself to move them. The shadow of the bus stop to my left looms over me, shielding the sunlight and cooling me down. My phone pings and I slip it out of my bag, glancing at the text I'd received. I reply curtly and put it away again, deciding it's too hot to sit and stare at my screen for longer than a minute.
The sun beats down on everything below it, baking exposed skin through several hues of gold and kissing everything it reaches. There's a timid breeze skating between limbs and slipping beneath loose clothes, overwhelmed by the intensity of the sun. The air is humid and heavy, as if it's carrying the heat on its back like a rucksack, and the sky is a stretch of rich, unsoiled blue. There's a distinct aura in London's tone today. I don't know how to describe it. Like someone's squeezing a juice-box till its insides meet, trying to get to those last few drops. It feels like the end of summer. It's the long queues in uniform stores, the rustling of Wilko bags, the hastened footsteps of last-minute shoppers. Woolwich is buzzing with academic dread, and yet complimented by the excitement of a new year. On the spectrum, I'd say I'm stuck between the two.
