"No matter your problems, face them with a bright smile and a bucket of chocolate ice-cream," nana once wisely told me. At the time, I was barely twelve and thought that I could summon a unicorn if I just believed in myself.
A decade later, despi...
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Maeva's point of view.
With both feet anchored to the floor, and my hand muscles withering by the second, I'm forced to shut my eyelids closed for I risk popping an eye out if I keep pushing that hard. As several humid lines stripe my forehead, I give up on the intense labor and squat next to a very pensive Michael. "The wheels seem to be fine, but why aren't they rolling?"
"Wonder no more, because there is only so much one poor suitcase can contain, and Maeva chose to shove her entire wardrobe in it." Anthony enlightens him while chewing on the last macaron. I swear that if I wasn't on the verge of dying after that horrible ten hours flight, I would've chased him all the way home and kicked the hell out of him for stealing my snacks.
'Hah, I agree with the kid.'
If only you had a pair of hands, conscience. I would've made you push it, with me sitting right on the top with a lemonade in hand.
"Over here!" shouts Dad from the other end of the parking lot, cigarette loosely hanging between his lips and keys proudly jingling in his hands. I don't see the reason for him to rejoice, though. For the past half hour, we've been sizzling under the burning flames of a June morning while he went bouncing on a treasure hunt to find his car. A question keeps flashing in my head, though, and I cannot seem to ignore it: How on earth did he miss the huge signs scattered all around, begging drivers not to forget the aisle where they parked their cars?!
"How are we going to get the suitcase there?" wonders Mom, as she fiercely waves an airline brochure back and forth in hopes of soothing her burning face with a breath of air.
Before I even get a say in it, Michael brushes a hand through his golden locks then takes a deep breath as he lifts the suitcase and sprints away from us.
"Hey, wait up!" I scream while trying to catch up with him. Running as fast as I can, I try to balance myself while keeping my twins from hitting me in the chin. If I knew I was going to run a marathon I would've at least worn a sports bra. On second thought, one bra would've been useless, those ladies are feisty!
'Did the pretty dude just steal your baggage?' I don't know, conscience! I'll make sure to ask him when I magically grow extra muscles in my feet and catch him.
The more I push myself, the more my lungs burn and the smaller his silhouette gets. It becomes harder for me to see clearly as my glasses keep sliding down the bridge of my nose. Drops of burning sweat exude from each and every single pore in my body, and I can already tell that victory's not mine. How can someone be so fast?! I need to catch him, otherwise, I'll never get to see my lucky pair of slippers again.
