Wild Hearts

In Love With An Idea

Anxiety is a voice in your head telling you you're not good enough. A devil in your ear, fooling you into believing every little lie you know can't be true. Yet you tell yourself it must be.

Sometimes you anticipate the worst in others, and other times, the little insecurities add up and more often than not, you're the problem, not them. No. Never them.

And yet, if someone can see the real you. Can return the love you want to give, but are afraid to, and accept you when you can't even accept the person you are during the best of times, let alone the worst... Well, all that pain and confusion might be worth a damn.

It's enough.

I cup my hands by my mouth, trying to breathe some life into them, and then I jump ten feet with the scream of the dirtbike. In no time, his scarlet beast carves the world apart, none standing in his way. He stops by the street but leaves the engine on. He waits, looking at me expectantly, eyes a dangerous secret hidden beneath his visor.

Swallowing, I squeeze the little plastic phone in my hand, something trivial in another's eyes, but in mine, a gift that shapes a world, crumbles all barriers. OK. Deep breath. And another one. And...

Go.

I leave Hell behind me and when I reach his bike, I chew at my bottom lip, eyeing the spits and grunts of the wild creature, smoke trailing from it like the world on fire. I've never been on a bike that required an engine and not leg-power. It might be... fun.

I'm barely even on, my hands linked around his chest, attached to flesh and muscles, a poised strength, when he lets the beast go full charge. I was wrong. So so wrong. This isn't fun! This is terrifying! This is—

I press my face against his jacket and don't open my eyes for anything. The world must be a blur, a fusion of colours, of beauty and art and... It doesn't matter. I refuse to look.

Wind chafes at me, trying to pry my eyes open, and the guttural scream of the bike is like nothing I've ever heard. It promises to swallow me whole, the sound deafening.

Ryder takes so many turns—too many turns, and I feel the bike tilt dangerously close to the ground. I scream during one bow to the gravel. OK, at least three times. The next dip is too much, and my hands are losing their strength. Already they're slipping, slippery with sweat.

I open my eyes, that forbidden fruit, and I begin to hyperventilate. This time, he can't help me.

But of course, he can't. He wasn't always there. Hasn't been there. This is something I have to do on my own.

Eyes closed again. Focus. Focus...

Focus!

His warmth is my strength. His voice is a melody I never tire of. His laughter is a picture I'll never erase. Memories, pure, sweet memories are what breathes life into the dull and monotonous days. His presence is my purpose.

Open.

The world doesn't feel so frightening. The ground doesn't rush to meet us. The wind is a nuisance at best, and still, my arms link around his chest, and I don't think I'll let go.

The city is swallowed by the fog, and though it's the middle of the day, the sky is overcast, a grey that devours all light. It leaves only the miserable cold and the promise of rain.

Overcast or not, the city is a painting with thousands, upon millions of details to behold. The hiss of smoke plumes; the giggling of small children playing at the park with their parents, all wrapped up in puffy coats and beanies too big for their tiny heads.

The smells of the city, the nose-prickling sting of Thai food or the heavenly aroma of fish and chips brings drool to my mouth, and I have to lick my lips before I salivate all over Ryder's back.