I walk back home. The short, narrow pot-holed path to my home seems longer than usual, my bag heavier. I'm fingering the straps of my book-laden bag about to split at the seams as I splash through puddles and get splashed by speeding cars with blinding headlights that don't care a thing about my existence. I sit looking out of the auto on my way back home. The wind slams on my face and I cringe. I gather the loose starnds of hair from my sweaty face and tuck them behind my ears. The bill-boards outside shine bright. The earplugs in my ears belt songs one after the other and I lose track. I study faces and search for faces on the windows of the high-rises. I like the fact that they are indistinguishable from this far, that they are tiny blotches of indistinct colours. I turn to look at my co-passenger. There isn't a pair of dark brown eyes,watching over my trance-like state, drinking in every minute change in my expressions. Every song makes me cry. I swallow my sudden urge to hold a hand and cry like a child like I swallow my words and put them to sleep.