I would choose you

The journey

We were sitting at the front of the bus - Hannah and I sharing the first row, her by the window, pressed close to the glass as if she could speed us along just by willing it. Across from us sat Maria and Nicole, both bundled in scarves, quietly sipping from thermoses that smelled like mint and chamomile.

Behind us were the boys: Arthur and Abraham directly behind Nicole and Maria, and behind Hannah and me sat August, along with a tall stranger he had brought along without much of a proper introduction. We only got a short introduction: Max. Psychology faculty. Apparently he and August sometimes played music together, Max played bass.

He had long black hair that fell over most of his face, like a dark curtain, and he didn’t bother pushing it back. His voice, when he spoke, was so deep it startled me, and he talked slowly, like every word was a stone he’d considered carefully before setting it down. He was much taller than any of us, and slightly resembled a sceleton with his long boney fingers. When we introduced ourselves, he shook each of our hands. There was something almost old-fashioned about it.

The shuttle trundled through what remained of the storm. The roads had been cleared just enough for passage, but great drifts of snow still lined the forest edges like sleeping creatures. In the fields beyond, trees stood heavy with white, and the morning sky was a gentle, unsaturated blue.

No one talked much during the ride to the station. There was that familiar, drowsy hum in the air, too late for morning energy, too early for proper chatter. I think we were all half afraid the trains would cancel again and we’d be hauled back to our rooms like children who’d misbehaved.

We arrived at the station five minutes before our train pulled in, a shrill mechanical moan echoing through the platform like it had traveled the whole country just to find us. The station was little more than a stretch of concrete and a metal sign barely hanging on its hinges.

Our wagon was old, with hard benches and rattling windows, but the inside was warmer than the air outside, so we happily folded ourselves into the seats. Nicole, Maria and I took one side. Facing us were Arthur, Hannah, and Abraham. August and Max sat across the isle.

We shoved bags beneath our benches and unbuttoned coats. The heaters weren’t strong, but the tea helped - hot, strong, slightly sweet. Nicole passed around sandwiches she’d wrapped in parchment, and Arthur pulled out a tin of brownies he claimed he’d baked himself (Maria later found the packaging in his coat pocket). The brownies were cold, chewy, and very sweet.

For a few moments, we just sat and ate and listened to the train shudder over its tracks. Then Arthur, of course, had to break the silence.

“Wanna hear a joke?”

Everyone nodded instinctively.

"What happens when a frog's car breaks down? It gets toad”. A silly dad joke felt so unexpected and out of place, that we a started laughing. It felt good to laugh.

Then another joke: “How many tickles does it take to make an octopus laugh? Ten-tickles. Get it, because octopus has tentacles?” then he told about a dozen more.

“I’ve got a long one,” he said, sitting up taller. “Want to hear it?”

We braced ourselves. He grinned and launched in:

“A train carriage. Forty-six girls, all sharing a sleeper cabin on a long-haul trip up north…”

“The first girl says,

“I like a man who’s got authority. You know, firm handshake, runs the whole operation.”

The second adds,

“Give me a Londoner any day. Suits, salaries, and Soho flats—he’ll keep me in Pret and Prada.”

The third:

“I prefer Scousers. They’re warm-hearted and can cook a proper roast.”

The fourth says,

“Personally, I like blokes from Canterbury. You can trust a man who respects old Church traditions.”

Fifth:

“Not for me. I want someone from York. Have you seen their parks?”

Sixth chimes in,

“I’m into lads from Birmingham. Proper strong, proper sound...”

We all went quiet, except for a few surprised laughs at the beginning. His voice took on a mock-serious tone, as if he were telling a fable passed down through generations of rail travelers.

“Seventh:

“Imagine a boyfriend from Brighton. Weekends by the sea, pier chips, kissing in the rain…”

Eighth sighs,

“I’d marry a Polish lad. They say they’ve got, you know, double the equipment down there.”

Ninth says,

“Give me a Scotsman from the Highlands. Built for cold winters and strong like oxen.”

Tenth shrugs,

“I fancy Welshmen. Bit controversial at times, but so much passion.”

Eleventh girl says dreamily,

“Georgians—those lads know food. One bite of khachapuri and I’m weak at the knees.”

Twelfth says,

“I like people from Devon. They’ve always been a bit more democratic.”

Thirteenth:

“I want a Cornish guy. Brave, rugged, and knows how to handle a storm.”

Fourteenth:

“I’d love a Lithuanian. EU passport, here I come!”

Fifteenth:

“A guy from the West Country. They’ve always had a European mindset.””

It was starting to get ridiculous.

“Sixteenth:

“Someone from the Midlands—close enough to London, but with better views.”

Seventeenth:

“A Finnish lad. Those lakes, that silence…”

Eighteenth:

“I don’t know why, but Estonian men—so calm, like living meditation.”

Nineteenth:

“I’m into Latvians. And their fish-milk soup? Tastes like Nesquik with lager.”

Twentieth:

“Honestly, I love all the Baltics, especially the ones near the sea. Sea air just does something to me.”

Twenty-first:

“Zhemaitian. No idea who they are, but the name’s funny.”

Twenty-second:

“Same! Saw a bloke from Białystok once and fell instantly.”

Twenty-third:

“I want a lad from the Lake District. We’d go swimming every morning…”

Twenty-fourth:

“A guy from Tewkesbury. Never lies down for anyone—not even his mum.”"

"Is this ever going to end?” Maria asked in a begging voise.

“Yes yes, I'm almost done. So, where was I?

Yes, Twenty-fifth:

“I want a lad from Yorkshire. Always loved K-pop and they’ve got the vibe.”

Twenty-sixth:

“I’m into lads from Manchester. Bit rough, but those ears, so salty…”

Twenty-seventh:

“Worcester boys! Absolute legends.”

Twenty-eighth:

“I’ve always fancied a Bulgarian. Wanted to be someone’s little fishy bunny since I was a child.”

Twenty-ninth:

“A proud Northerner, that’s what I want. Total dreamboats, every one.”

Thirtieth:

“Someone from some forgotten village, like… I don’t know, that place that doesn’t even have a Wikipedia page.”

Thirty-first:

“I grew up playing Fallout. If I marry a bloke from Chernobyl, I could visit Pripyat!””

By the time he got to the thirty-first girl who wanted to marry a bloke from Chernobyl just to visit Pripyat, I was nearly crying with laughter. Hannah had to bury her face in her scarf to keep from cackling.

“Thirty-second:

“A guy from Reading. Bit poetic, even if they used to rhyme only verbs.”

Thirty-third:

“A Belarusian. He’d mash me like a potato and I’d love it.”

Thirty-fourth:

“A lad from Leeds. Those tanks they ride? Fit.”

Thirty-fifth:

“A guy from Bath. Gold-topped cathedrals, yes please.”

Thirty-sixth:

“Always adored Ancient Britain. First white-bearded druid I see—I’m leaping.”

Thirty-seventh:

“I crave a lad from… I don’t know. Just someone Udor-ish.”

Thirty-eighth:

“Guys from the Shetlands. Those arms—pure granite.”

Thirty-ninth:

“Those sweet boys from Kendal. I’d squish their cheeks.”

Fortieth:

“Someone from Vitebsk. Always knew how to haggle and turn a profit.”

Forty-first:

“I just want a rugged lad from the North. Give me windswept and wild.”

Forty-second:

“Why’s no one mentioned Armenians? I’d play backgammon with them all day long.”

Forty-third:

“Doesn’t matter where he’s from—as long as he’s a proper highlander.”

Forty-fourth:

“I’d marry a Turkmen. He’d do my renovations for free!”

Forty-fifth:

“Norwegians are loaded. I’d never have to work again.”

Forty-sixth:

“I’ve always wanted a German. So tidy, so punctual.”

And finally:

“Suddenly, the train jolts to a stop—and from the top bunk falls His Imperial Majesty:

Emperor and Autocrat of All the Britains, Lord of London, Duke of Devon, Earl of Edinburgh, Prince of Powys, Sovereign of Scotland, Ruler of the Isles, Guardian of the Peaks and Protector of the Union Jack, Holder of the Chip Butty, Keeper of the Crown Jewels, Defender of Eurovision Excellence and etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.”

Arthur took a dramatic bow from his seat. We started clapping, happy that the anecdote finally ended.

“That’s it. That’s my one-man show. I expect applause in chocolates.”

He finished just as the sun finally broke from behind the clouds and poured through the frosted windows. It touched the ends of Nicole’s hair and turned it gold. Maria tilted her head to look. Max’s fingers tapped silently on his knee, like a metronome only he could hear.

Then August pulled out his guitar. He didn’t say anything, just tuned the strings softly for a moment. Then he began to play:

“I was scared of dentists and the dark…”

A grin stretched across his face as he sang.

“I was scared of pretty girls and starting conversations…”

I recognized the song immediately—Riptide. Nicole was the first to join in, then Arthur, and finally everyone else.

“Lady, running down to the riptide

Taken away to the dark side

I wanna be your left-hand man…”

There was something sacred about it, sitting in a cold train car with old heaters and too much snow outside, singing songs we all only half-knew.

When the last chorus faded, Max reached over, silently took the guitar from August, and sat with it for a second. Then he started to play.

“Is this the real life?

Is this just fantasy...”

Bohemian Rhapsody. He didn’t look at anyone. Just sang with his head down, his voice low and rich.

“Caught in a landslide,

No escape from reality…”

By the time he reached the third verse, we were all singing again, softly, then louder, then in chaotic harmony as the tempo climbed. Arthur jumped in with theatrical falsetto. Hannah mouthed the words with her hands wrapped around her tea. Abraham clapped on the off-beats. Max kept singing, calm and steady, right through the chaos.

“Mama, ooooh

I don’t wanna die...”

“I sometimes wish I’d never been born at all...”

The windows began to fog from our breath. Outside, the fields stretched into the distance, white and wide, dotted with occasional crooked fences and distant lights that looked like memories more than places.

The sun dipped lower, bleeding into pink, then into purple. And the sky, for a brief moment, looked like someone had painted it with the inside of a seashell - lavender, peach, rose.

We fell quiet after that. Not because we were tired, though we were, but because something in us had been soothed. Like we had finally shaken the walls of P. College from our backs and replaced them, at least for a while, with music, shared silence and the feeling of freedom.