My wavy chestnut hair blew in the crisp winter winds as I stood on the edge of London's King Cross-platform awaiting the last train. I pulled my grey woolly hat to try and stop the cold night air from seeping in through the tiny gap. The platform was empty except one middle-aged man in a dark suit and thick brown cashmere coat. He was perched on the edge of an old graffitied bench reading a newspaper, beside him lay an expensive looking briefcase. I looked down at my own rucksack, which now contained my entire life and let out a long sigh. Time was ticking by, it was fast approaching 10.30pm and there was still no sign of him.
I moved closer to the edge of the platform and saw the dazzling lights from the train appear around the corner, lighting up the entire track. The 10.30 train screeched to a halt, almost as if it had nearly forgotten to stop. I looked around again, the platform was still empty apart from the middle-aged man who was now folding his newspaper neatly. He picked up his briefcase and briskly walked towards the train doors. A young boy, no older than thirteen, had appeared next to me, I jumped and looked him. The boy was wearing a bright red bicycle helmet with a light attached to the front, he reached deep into the pocket of his tatty denim jeans and held out his hand which now contained an envelope. 'Layla' was scrawled across the front; it was his messy handwriting. Oscars, Mr Ryder's messy handwriting...
YOU ARE READING
The Teacher
Teen FictionLevel-headed Layla is seventeen years old with big plans. She has it all- the best friend, the rock musician boyfriend, the perfect mum and dad and even an unconditional offer to Oxford University. Everything in her life is to dream for until she me...
