As the bus rolled through the Irish countryside, she took out her book. She lived scattered between the pages, well-worn and well-loved, always rereading the passages that found themselves closest to her heart and mind.
She paused and resumed, paused and resumed, sleep puncturing her ability to finish the chapter. When she was awake she would thumb between the bookmark and her point in the novel marked by her index finger. The bookmark, a white slip of paper wrinkled and folded over too many times, carried a record of her travel expenses: one boyfriend, her parents’ approval, and all confidence that she knew which direction she was going. She thought of all she had lost in the last six weeks and all she hoped to gain. The price for getting out and seeing the world was steep, she thought, but I’d rather be anywhere than tethered to my own little corner of it."The Student on Holiday" (via typewriterdaily)