Page 47 of A Ballad of Phantoms and Hope
We watch in silence as the conductor punches tickets and passes them back to a family of four. The children look nine and six. The mother is smiling pleasantly, and the father makes an excited face at his kids. They cheer and laugh as they hold their train tickets like new treasures. It’s clearly their first train ride.
I smile at their interaction and am envious of the warmth this small family has. Kindness radiates from them; it’s not forced or fake.
My throat grows thick with a lump. I’m jealous of the lack of pain in their eyes, the absence of fear, but so fucking happy that they at least get a chance at functionality. To see the world through a lens of love and care.
“My parents didn’t love me either.”
My eyes snap to Ophelia, wide and shocked. She raises a shoulder, then lets it fall before she pulls out her iPod. Since the train is pretty vacant, we have an entire section to ourselves, but she moves to sit next to me. Our shoulders brush, making my stomach flutter.
I hand her a headphone, not wireless. I grabbed the old-school wired ones on purpose; some intervention is needed occasionally when it comes to the universe. Is it weird that I’m elated that we’re connected with the chords of headphones? It satiates the hopeless romantic in me.
“I didn’t say mine didn’t love me,” I respond absently, letting my eyes drift back to the warmth the family fills the cabin with; their laughter is like a disease, spreading and making others grin to themselves.
I love that most, I think.
The disease of love.
“You didn’t have to say it. People like us just stick out. We can’t hide that part of us. It’s the whisper in our gaze, the shadow on our frowns.” She doesn’t look at me as she talks and then pushes play. Music flows into my earbud, making me smile as I know the song instantly. “Train Wreck” by James Arthur.
My brows pinch together and an incredulous grin pulls at my lips. “Seriously?” I nudge her shoulder and she shoves me back without missing a beat. “You’re going to curse this train or something,” I say.
She lifts her chin, soft strands of hair falling over her collarbone. “Oh hush, we’re already technically haunting it.” Her fingers curl against the soft lace of her dress. The black is delicate and mingles well with the maroon rose fabric sewn in. It looks like there really are little roses woven into her dress.
“If we find another dead passenger does that make this a poltergeist then?”
Her mouth opens just a sliver and she scowls at me. “That’s terrible!” The smile she lets slip betrays her words.
“Thought I’d feel out your morbid joke meter.” I laugh, shoulders relaxing with the somberness of the song.I’ma train wreck, that’s for sure.
Ophelia stares at the family across the way. The same envy burns in her gaze. Her brown and green speckled eyes flash at me and I straighten. “Did you ever want children?” she asks, voice cold as stone.
My answer is instant. “No.”
“Why?”
I sink into my seat and put my feet up on the ones adjacent to us. My black sneakers blend well with the fabric of the chairs. “I hate the thought of becoming my father. Cold and absent. I know I’m not that way, but still, I worried enough never to want them.” My words taste like dirt. It’s not worth the breath to even speak of him. “You?”
“Nope. I love being independent and spending all my time on thingsIenjoy.” She smiles proudly. Most people would think that’s selfish, but I admire her for saying it so boldly—unapologetic and firm in her choice.
And why shouldn’t she? Be happy with yourself. You don’thaveto have children just because your parents insist. No one lives your life except you.
“Things like dancing and your unruly plant collection?” I taunt her and she squirms in her seat, trying to get comfortable.
“Yes, and now, apparently,youtoo.”
I look at her with subtle surprise. “You enjoyme?” Most people get annoyed rather quickly with my dreariness. I prefer to be alone, as Ophelia does, and yet it seems we share this small sacred thing, wanting to bathe in one another’s company.
She nods sleepily. Her shoulder bone presses into my arm, but I don’t say a word; her warmth consumes me. “I don’t wantpeople to see me, but I like that you do. You’re handsome, too, so that helps.”
I chuckle, my eyes are growing heavier with each breath. “You think I’m handsome?”
She doesn’t respond, but the next song, “Jealous” by Labrinth, loads on her music player.I grin like the hopeless romantic I am, leaning back in the uncomfortable train seat and resting my head against hers.
This feels a lot like a love story. Perhaps this time, it can be mine.
21
Ophelia
