Italian music plays softly in the background at the little cafe and the sun has barely made a quarter of it's journey for the day. A waiter with a thick mustache comes towards my table with two plates of egg and toast. He places one in front of me and one in front of the girl across from me. She is the most beautiful girl I've ever seen. She has curly bright red hair and piercing green eyes that reflect the flickering candle in the centre of our table. She reaches her hand across the table and rests it in mine, then opens her mouth as if to speak, but what comes out is definitely not speaking. The sound of an alarm fills my ears and the setting around me evaporates.
I crack open my eyes and see a stream of light flowing through a gap in the curtain of my bedroom window, acting like a spotlight for the dancing particles of dust. I watch them, peacefully for a moment, until my neck starts to ache. Then my back, then the rest of my body. I stumble out of bed and my head begins to pound and it's only partly because of my three-day hangover. I push back the memories that threaten wash over me like a tidal wave. The memories that are the other source of my headache; the ones that I can not stop reliving. I try to block them out, but despite all my efforts, no matter how hard I try, I can't stop remembering Sunday.
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Remembering Sunday
Ifjúsági irodalom(Based off Remembering Sunday by All Time Low) • When I was younger I was certain That I'd be fine without a queen Just a king inside his castle With an ocean in between Now all I do is sit And count the miles from you to me.
