One: A Journey

Two months ago, I found myself sat in an airport. Alone. For many this is nothing out of the ordinary, but for me this was momentous. At the age of eighteen this would be the first flight I’d taken without the companionship and security of my parents. Needless to say, there was a lot going through my head; had I packed everything? Had I got my passport? Was I sure, even though I could feel it through the front of my rucksack? Would I miss my flight? Would I get on the wrong one and end up somewhere else? Despite having planned this trip meticulously, I was still panicking. Typical Joshua. ‘Always worrying about something.' Something. But not him.
 
Sitting up from yet another completion of my mental check list of bag contents, I slipped my headphones into my ears in an attempt to calm myself. I leaned against the grey speckled wall and hit play. It was then that I noticed him. A boy, I guessed about my age, scruffy brown hair, checked shirt, skinny jeans. Nothing out of the ordinary, and yet there was something intriguing about him. He was staring at me. I expected him to look away, play the classic ‘I was looking, but I’m pretending not to.’ But he didn’t. He continued to stare, a pen between his lips, a questioning look on his face, a smile poised on the corner of his mouth. A pause, and then, as if nothing had happened, he turned his attention to the worn out leather notebook on his lap, writing, scribbling. Drawing. He was drawing. Then he looked up again. And back down. Draw. Look. Draw. Look. And then it clicked- he was drawing me. I was immediately perturbed. I hated attention, hated being looked at. I lived inside my mind and inside my books, with minimal contact with the outside. Just sitting so close to the sweaty, balding man next to me was uncomfortable. I had been sat alone for as long as possible, deliberately choosing to sit on the floor for this reason. But the departure lounge was filling up, it was getting close to 10 o'clock. Go time. I was catching a flight to the place where my life was supposedly 'about to begin.' I was going to university; a prospect which both thrilled and terrified me.
 
I made two lists in my head. Reasons I was looking forward to university: independence, freedom, a chance to immerse myself in the thing I loved the most in life- books. Reasons I didn't want to go: fear of the unknown, fear of being alone. This may seem strange to you, given I am a self-proclaimed introvert, but my issue was with new people, not people in general. In fact, given the right company, I thrived on conversation and interaction. I just feared that even in the presence of other people so similar to me, that I would feel out of place.
 
I didn't know what I wanted to do with my life. So, when the time came to finish my studies at sixth form, decisions had to be made. As I saw it I had three options: one, go straight into a job I neither wanted nor enjoyed, in hopes that I would eventually stumble across something I didn't hate. Two, take the overdone gap year, traveling around the world doing a mixture of charity work and getting wasted in an attempt to "find myself." Or three, university. I chose option three.
 
I mean, in theory it made sense. I liked learning. I liked knowledge. I loved books. And so there it was. Egged on by an over enthusiastic head of sixth, who was determined that I wouldn't “waste my life and mind”, I applied for a literature course, and, to my surprise, found myself with a place. I had put off thinking about it for as long as possible, hoping that the time would never come, but it had, it was here. The announcement crackled over the sound system; it was time to go.