"He so likes you!" she squeals, clapping her hands together like a little kid on Christmas morning.
"Really? I doubt it. Anyways, I don't want, like, a relationship or anything."
"Umm, I never said that! That means you've thought about it! What's his name?"
"I don't know, but I know he lives in Trump House."
A few years ago, all students got a chance to vote for boarding houses names. The girls voted for flowers: Lavender, Primrose, Buttercup and Sweetpea. Boys being boys, they decided to have their houses named after political leaders/ members of royalty: Donald Trump, Theresa May, Queen Elizabeth and Barack Obama. I feel bad for the poor guys who got put in Trump house, including the mystery track boy, who I guess ended up there.
"You've been watching him?!"
"Eww, no, I'm not a stalker!" I chuck my pillow at a snorting Chloe who collapses onto her bed and clutches her stomach.
"How... d- did you... know th- then?" she stutters in between fits of giggles.
"I happened to see which direction he was walking back in." I argue. " Oh, be quiet you!" I call to Chloe who is in hysterics now.
It feels nice giggling and gossiping in my room like an ordinary teenage girl. My other worries dissipate into the air as I laugh and laugh until I can't breathe.
A few minutes later, Housemother Kylie knocks on our door. "Girls, really? Keep it down, it was lights out fifteen minutes ago." She tuts, switching off our light. In the darkness, we pull our duvets up to our chins and stifle our laughter until she leaves. She isn't too bad, Housemother Kylie. She's not as strict as the other Housemothers and somehow manages to keep us organised. In some ways, she's more of a mother to me than my mum will ever be.
*
The next morning, I wake up early. Running time. Pulling on my sportswear, I creep out of our door. I love running in the mornings and pausing to watch the sun come up. It's nice to know that no matter what has happened before, it's a new day and the earth keeps spinning on round. Stretching in the dark, I pick up my water bottle from the common room- I must have left it here last night.
Setting my pace, my legs beg me to go faster, faster. But I keep my pace steady like Coach has trained me to do. "Save the best till last - then give it your all." he always tells me. And I'm starting to listen. I let my shoes crunch through the gravel at a constant pace. Little granules of granite pelt themselves at me, coating my legs in yet more scratches. I always have scars on me and I love them. Each one tells its own story - like that bruise on my shin from when I collapsed at the end of a race and ended up in a tangle of limbs on the floor. It was worth it, of course it was. I wear each and every cut or bruise like a trophy, no pain, no gain and I so desperately want to gain. I'm greedy for speed, my time is never fast enough. I train day in and day out, but I don't resent it. This hobby started as a distraction, but became so much more. If I'm not a runner, then I'm nothing except the shadow of the girl I used to be.
As I near the track, the show begins. Dashes of amber, splatters of pink, swirls of red all form one magnificent concoction of colour. I can't help but gasp at the sheer beauty of it, my breath snatched away. This may be something I see everyday, but I'll never get used to it. Colours merge into one another, dancing in the dazzling light. All of this on display, but only me to watch. It's sad how few people appreciate the little things in life. Maybe one day they'll understand what I see when I come out here.
I tear my gaze away and force myself to run onwards. I pick up the speed a notch, speeding up near the end as always. It's half five now and I need to turn back. If I stay out any longer, I'll end up being late to breakfast and breakfast is my favourite meal of the day. We have a time slot of seven till eight for breakfast, but barely anyone turns up until the last minute, squeezing in as much beauty sleep as they can get. They tend to just grab a blueberry muffin or a flapjack from the buffet and munch it on their way to class. Personally, I like sitting at a table with Chloe and our breakfast sat between us. It's sort of like a tradition of ours to get double of whatever we want and split it, surprising each other with our choices. One time, I tried to get her to have scrambled egg on toast, but that did not work. She ended up lecturing me on how that is the "most preposterous breakfast choice you could make. Even worse than - dare I say it - mushrooms." Firstly, mushrooms are delicious, secondly, I've learnt to stick to basic breakfast foods from now on. Croissants, toast, cereal, fruit or yogurt - nothing too fancy or out of the ordinary. It's nice to have a friend who I know all the little details about, ever since Freya, I haven't trusted myself to get close to anyone until now. Maybe this time I won't mess things