Only By The Night

*comes crashing down to earth and slams into an ocean of feelings at mach 8.6 and drowns*

Or better yet, people missing something.

We’re here, but something isn’t.

Something important was taken away from us.

We constantly look for something that will fill our void.

Ill fated, ill thought out, ill timed pursuits.

Sure it feels good in the moment—for an hour; a few weeks; months or whatever.

But eventually we realize it doesn’t satisfy the void.

And then we try something new, maybe with someone new.

Only it’s never something new, and more likely it’s with someone we once knew.

Trying the same thing over and over.

Always getting the same results.

That’s what Einstein called insanity.

So yesterday at the airport, I was standing in the security line and I turned back, you know, just to see who else was in line—looking at faces, making up my own narratives about people based off arbitrary things. Things such as clothes, the way they talked quickly into their phones—basically stupid stuff. I was doing the usual people watching (why does everyone at the airport always look so unsure of themselves?). Anyways, I turn back around and walking up behind me is the most beautiful girl I have ever laid eyes on.

I swear to you all, I know I exaggerate sometimes, but this is not hyperbole. She was gorgeous.

She was tall, probably 5’8”; slender with curly brown hair put into a messy bun. Normally messy hair wouldn’t have been a good thing, but 1. It was 5 o’clock in the morning and who has time to bring their A-game that early, and 2. It worked for her. And her eyes…her eyes were clear green, they were piercing, but not in a way where they only pierced me, but more like a two way view. When she looked at me, I swear she was peeking straight to my core, and I into hers. She had this look about her, it may have been tired, but it seemed more like she was kind of dark and twisted; just like me. She had nice full pink lips, the kind you dream of being kissed by.

I was obsessed.

The entire time through security, and waiting to board consisted of my stealing looks at this woman.

Fortune smiled upon me and saw it fit to put us in the same row. She had the aisle seat, and I had the window. I told her good morning, introduced myself, and struck up a little conversation about how shitty airline travel has become. Not my best ice breaker, but she seemed genuinely engaged. While we chatted and waited for takeoff, I hoped and prayed to the universe that the seat between us would remain empty. But as quickly as good luck was tossed my way, bad luck intercepted it, and ran it back for a touchdown. The fattest, drunkest orthodox Jew (I’m not kidding.) I’ve ever seen in my life came and sat between us, promptly falling asleep. His combination of snoring, beer breath filling the air, and constant swaying from side to side made conversation all but impossible. Soon she turned the other way to avoid smelling the foul odor coming from his mouth, and I did the same.

We got off the plane and headed towards concourse B. But as is the usual for me, good luck doesn’t show its face twice often. She went to gate B-13 to Philly, and I sat down, defeated at B-11.

I was in love* with her.

I should have told her she was the most beautiful woman in the world.

I should have proposed to her while I had the chance.

*Okay, a bit dramatic. I loved her as much as one can love a stranger.

“Row 26, seat B,” he repeated to himself as he eyed his way down the plane isle. “Row 26, seat be. 26 B. Twenty-six bee. Twenty-six b-” and there she was. It was her. Not any her, it was the her. The her that was implied every time he talked about she who shan’t be named.

What a small world.

And judging by the “I can’t believe this shit” expression on her face, she was equally surprised to see him too.

Why now? Why here?

He briefly thought to ask the flight attendant for a change of seat, but seeing as to how the flight was oversold (how the fuck do you oversell a flight anyway?), he decided against it. He sat down without saying a word.

They sat there, on that flight, next to each other, pretending not to notice the other. After all, that was their agreement. More of a solution really. “You pretend I don’t exist, I pretend you don’t exist. We pretend we never happened.” It sounds stupid when you say it aloud, but for three years it had worked for them. Out of sight, out of mind.

Of course, the mind is the heart, and if it isn’t weighing on your heart, then it doesn’t hurt.

The flight lady goes through the usual pre-flight routine, telling them what futile measures to take in case of emergency that will make our last few moments not so much a living hell, and they’re off. Up into the air for the next seven hours.

The drink cart passes by and he politely declines. She asks for a ginger ale. And he thinks to himself that she hasn’t completely changed. He pulls out an Aquafina bottle halfway filled with Russian water. Always halfway, never full; a clever little trick he learned to avoid getting it confiscated by the TSA. “Join me in a drink?” he asks her.

“Really? It’s been three years and that’s the first thing you say? I’ll pass. I don’t even want to know you right now.”

“You can pretend to not know me, but I’ve seen you naked. So really?”

Her face slightly reddens, “yes, really.”

“Oh come on! It’s gonna be a long flight. You don’t like me, and I’m not supposed to like you, it’ll make the time go by faster. And hey, if we’re lucky, we’ll both pass out and go our separate ways when we hit the tarmac.”

She smiles. “You’ve always had a way with words, asshole. Ok. But only because being next to you for seven hours is hell for me. Sip for sip?”

“Sip for sip.”

Half an hour later they’re both feeling it now. They’ve both had a generous amount of the clear spirit. They stare at each other, smile, giggle, then remember that they hate each other and turn away.

And then turn back.

“You’re going to forget about all this by tomorrow morning, so I feel confident in saying that despite everything that’s happened, I don’t hate you. Never have, never will.”

“Don’t do that. Don’t do this,” she says. He can’t tell whether it’s anger or sadness in her voice. She continues, “we’re going to drink this bottle. We’re going to pretend we’re ok. The second we get off this plane, it’s back to reality.”

“Oh grow th—” he catches the anger on his voice manifesting as almost a shout. “Grow the fuck up,” he whispers. “You can’t pretend we never existed. Say you hate me as much as you want, but I guarantee you wouldn’t have taken this drink if you hated me that much. I know you.”

“Fuck you.”

“Come on and do it.”

That gets a smile out of her. “You’ve always had a way of defusing the tension to. Give me the bottle.”

She takes a long swig. “Your turn.”

Hours pass and (un)fortunately neither of them has passed out. They talk, giggle, she even falls asleep on his shoulder.

The shaking of the landing gear hitting the earth wakes them both up. He looks over at her, wanting this to not be the end again. He knows deep down that these last seven hours have been much more fulfilling than the entirety of the last three years he’s been living. And what a long three years it has been.

“Got any checked bags?” he asks, hoping that maybe he can spend fifteen more minutes standing next to her at the baggage claim. Fifteen more minutes before he has to go back to being unfulfilled.

“Nah. Checked bags are for suckers.” His heart drops. “But hey, I’m sure you still have my number—hit me up whenever you’re free. We need to hang out sometime.”

“I don’t have it, I deleted it.”

“No you didn’t,” she says. “You’d never delete mine.”

She walks off and without looking back, the cocky bastard.

He scrolls through his contacts. Unnecessarily, though. He has her number, he knows he does.

He supposes she knows him too.

We are at my house playing with Legos. Which is perfectly normal for me, but a little out of character for her I suppose. However, she looks to be enjoying herself so I do not question it. When it comes to her, I never question anything. I just strap myself in for the ride and enjoy whatever it is to be had.

We are not saying much to each other. Actually, we are not saying anything at all. She is humming a tune I do not know, and I am silently observing her—admiring her. Taking her all in. The way her long fingers delicately piece together colorful brick after colorful brick, how she turns her head to the side as she gauges the progress of her multichromatic creation. I adore her. The different pitches and tones she hit as she hummed. How she occasionally glances my way and throw me some silly look, all while maintaining an air of nonchalance. She has me; I am enamored.

She looks at her watch, gets up, and heads to the restroom. I expect her to return to her work in progress, instead she begins to walk towards the front door. It is sudden, and I give chase to her. I ask her where she is going and she does not say anything to me. Instead, she only walks faster. Defeated, I watch from my doorway as she hurriedly gets into her car. She must not be paying attention because as she is about to pull away, my neighbor, who must also not be paying attention backs out their driveway and hits her car.

I run to her car and both windows are shattered. I ask her if she was ok. Of course she is not, but girls like her almost never own up to not being ok. And when they do, you know that their world is falling apart. She says she is fine, but she can not even get the words out before she breaks down crying, and she hugs me tighter than I have been hugged in a long time.

She explains that she has a meeting to get to by 4:30 and that she did not say anything because she was playing the silent game. I am stunned..and somewhat angry. Before I can get a word out to voice my displeasure, she smiles and I instantly forgive and forget. I caress her face as I wipe the tears from her cheeks. She tells me that I have been a great boyfriend to her for four years. I say to her, “I haven’t been your boyfriend that long.” She replies, “even though we were apart, we’ve always been together. I’ve always considered you mine, and me yours.”

She tries to get out the car, me being the cautious one, I tell her to sit tight, she might be in shock. She tells me to come closer, and we hug. We hug and we never let go.

…

That is until I realize that this is all wrong and I must be dreaming again. I wake up feeling half relieved, and half confused as to why I still dream this twisted shit.

For the next few nights, he hardly sleeps. Actually, he does. Just not easily. He questions the legitimacy of it all. It’s not every day people whose lives go in different directions run into each other. It’s mathematically impossible. When lines go in different directions, they don’t meet again. Ever. But this is life, he resolves, life isn’t bound by any one set of rules. Just go with the flow.

It’s Friday and he’s sitting in the lobby, waiting. It had been 15 minutes since he called her, telling her he was here, and she said she was on her way down. It’s a big hotel, but unless she’s on the top floor, taking the stairs, it should NOT take this long. He was getting impatient, thinking perhaps that maybe this was a setup, and then the elevator doors open, and he sees her.

As beautiful as he remembers her. Actually, she’s even more beautiful than he remembers. She greets him with a hug, and he tells her she looks good, adding that some things never change. Dressed in skinny jeans, heels, and a blazer, she’s dressed more casual than him which makes him feel a little foolish standing there in a suit.

They walk to his car parked on the street, and she makes the obvious known that he is still driving “that ol’ thing” that he drove in college. He smiles to her and says, “she’s my baby, my first love.” She fakes a look of disbelief and replies, ”asshole, I thought I was your first love?”

“You are.”

“I was.”

“No. Not ‘was,’ ‘were,’ or anything past tense. You only get one first love. Either you always are or you never were. You were, are, and will always be my first love.”

The car is silent for a moment, she’s staring out the window, smiling and she says, “you always had a way with words. Some things never change. Where are you taking me?”

“Everything changes. On the best night of your life. But first, we gotta make a pit stop.”

“Sounds good. Well drive this thing faster, I’m staaarving,” she says as she turns the radio up.

How was your character’s first kiss? Who with? Where was it? How old were they? Write the scene.

“What was your first real kiss like?” she asks as they sit there on the grass watching the sun sink low on the horizon. They had been out there for hours, talking about everything…but mostly nothing really. The sudden serious question catches him off guard.

“Unremarkable—in every single way,” he deadpans with a smirk. “But then again whose first kiss really is? You get it while playing a game of truth or dare in the fourth grade and you don’t think much about it after that.”

“It’s not like losing your virginity, or anything important.”

“Exactly! I mean, I’ve had my first kiss, and I’ve kissed around a lot, but none of them ever meant anything. None of them ever brought up some feeling inside me that made me say ‘oh yea, this is worth remembering.’ It is what it is.”

“Now that’s just sad.”

He looks over at her, and she’s wearing an exaggerated sad face, with the puppy dog eyes. “Oh, don’t pity me!” he protests as he playfully shoves her aside. She grabs his arm and before he realizes what’s happening, her lips are on his.

The world explodes.

And everything around them seems to goes dark. His eyes close, and it seems like the world has gone silent. The only input going to his brain is the feel of her lips on his. Firm kisses planted by exceptionally soft lips…the taste of strawberry lip gloss. He could even feel her smiling behind the kiss. All too soon she pulls away. Her lips curled into a smile, she asks “how was that?”

“Well…ummm…” he says searching for the words in vain while his brain is on repeat reliving that kiss.

“Well…ummm…?”

“Remarkable—in every single way.”

“Good. Everybody deserves a great first kiss. From now on, that one’s yours. When people ask you about it, you tell them about me,” she winks at him.

Before he can reply, she gets up and stretches, “let’s get outta here. I’m starving!”

(Source: 0nlybyth3n1ght)

True story.

There was once this girl, the daughter of parents who are both day laborers on a farm goes to a nice middle-class private school. Being that her parents are but mere laborers, most of their money goes towards her tuition, and thus, her clothes are not the most fashionable. On the other hand, three of her classmates whose parents also work on the same farm dress in the latest fashions and always have extra money to buy nice meals, and flaunt it extravagantly.

One day the girl, tired of looking so poor, and envying these seemingly rich girls, approaches them and inquires, “how are you able to afford nice things? Your parents are peasants just like mine, how can they afford these things?” The nicely dressed girls look at each other knowingly, and reply to the girl, if you really want to dress nicely like we do, meet us in this very spot after school.

After school, the girl goes to the designated meeting place, and the three girls arrive shortly after. Eagerly, the girl dressed in drab clothes demands that they tell her how it is they are able to afford such amazing things. The girls tell her they have a friend who made this all possible, and if she’d like to they will introduce him to her. She obliges, and they make way to the mysterious friend’s house.

As they are walking to this person’s house, she notices that they are heading out of the middle class city into a poorer, less reputable part of the countryside. She wonders aloud, how exactly someone who lives in such a shanty part of the country can provide these girls with such sums of money. The girls tell her to keep quiet; all questions will be answered by their friend.

Upon arriving at the friend’s house, the girls turn to her, and with a foreboding look warn her to keep quiet as they talk to her friend, and to never speak of this place to anyone, ever. At this point, she’s both apprehensive and curious on just who exactly this friend is. They knock on the door, and shortly after, the door opens, and the girl’s heart drops to the pit of her stomach.

It is very apparent that this “friend” of these girls is nothing more than a witch doctor. Being raised as a ███████████, she was taught from birth, by her parents to stay far, far away from witch doctors; do not inquire of them, do not speak to them, and if ever she were to encounter one, to get as far away from them as quickly as possible. But she was tired of living how she did. She was tired of being made fun of, not being able to have nice things, not being popular—and so she stood there. It took everything she had to go against what her parents had taught her, but she stood there quietly and let the girls speak.

After a quick exchange with the doctor, who looked a little frustrated, he motioned for the girl to come to him. He said to her, “your friends have told me what you seek from here, I won’t be the one to grant your wish, but it will be an entity much more powerful than me—you need to understand this.” She doesn’t quite understand, but she wants so badly to have nice things, she nods her head.

The doctor begins his ceremony, lighting his candles, mixing his potions…only that every time he lights his candles, the tiny flames go out, and when he mixes his various potions, there is no reaction. Puzzled, he tries it again…nothing happens. Over and over he tries, and to the surprise of everyone in the room, nothing seems to work. Suddenly, with a sudden realization, he looks up at the girl and asks what religion are you? Somewhat puzzled, she quietly responds “███████████.” The doctor’s eyes grow wide and he jumps up, telling her, “leave here now! You do not belong here. There is nothing I can do for you.”

The girl bursts into tears and begs and pleads. She tells him that she is so tired of her life, and so desperately wants this. Feeling sorry for the girl, he tells her to wait there, and says he needs to consult someone, and then quickly disappears into the back room. The girls look puzzled at each other, as they know that no one else is in the house but the five of them. The man returns and whispers to the girl, “although the man I work for is a very powerful man, that does not mean some things are impossible for him to do,”

“But I re—”

“However,” he interrupts the girl, “however, he will be able to help you if you show him a sign of good faith, and your willingness. After all, you must give in order to receive.”

“I’ll do whatever it takes,” the girl whimpers.

“Good,” the doctor replies, “follow me.”

He leads the group into his backyard and points to a pig pen. He says to her, “the man I work for says that he will only be able to help you if you go into that pig pen and roll around in the mud with them.” The girl’s eyes the man with disbelief; the three other girls wear the same expression. This is new to them, their ceremony went by so easily; much quicker…less messy too. The girl eyes the three other girls, and then the man, sighs, and marches towards the pig pen.

She gets down on her knees, gagging at the smell. She lies on her back, hoping inside that this humiliation is worth it, that this will be the last time she’ll ever wear dirty clothes. She lays on her back in the muddy pigpen and…

She doesn’t move.

A minute passes, three minutes pass, then five. The doctor calls out to her, “you have to roll around in it!” She still doesn’t move. The three girls stare at each other nervously, then look to the doctor, who himself is confused. After ten minutes or so, they four cautiously walk up to the pig pen, to the girl and they see that she is dead—her neck broken.

He lies there in his bed, in the darkness, observing silhouettes. The way the silver slivers of light bathe the world inside his bedroom in endless lines of grey, it was almost hypnotizing. His windows are open and it seems odd to him that even at this hour, the world is still very much alive. The constant chirping of crickets, the sound of some god awful car muffler accelerating endlessly until it fades into nothingness, the occasional car horn, the sounds of sirens far off in the distance. Even the random moments of silence seemed alive to him; a constant hum as if to say: I’m not dead; I’m still here—even when I’m not.

Listening to the city breathe, listening to himself breathe. This seemed familiar to him—familiar, yet different at the same time. His mind began to wander and wonder, and in his mind he saw himself lying in his bed, in the dark, windows open, listening. Listening to the city breathe, listening to himself breathe, and listening to her breathe.

Everything had changed, and nothing had changed.

His last thought before sleep muted the sounds of the city from him.

(Source: 0nlybyth3n1ght)

What about their earlier school days? Write a scene of your character in grade school or middle school.

He sat there in the timeout chair, watching his classmates enjoy their recess; all while trying to figure out what he did wrong. Yes, he had hit her in the arm, but he wasn’t being mean; he was only trying to show her that he liked her and wanted to be her friend. And all that got him was a stern lecture from teacher and a missed recess. Why had she told on him? Clearly she didn’t know how boys work.

He decides she’s a dummy and resolves never to speak to her ever again.

He hadn’t seen or heard from her in six years. He’d long since given up on her; any dreams, any life that included her, were now distant sentiments held firmly in the past, as where they should be. He’d moved on—he was happy. He thinks of her from time to time, however there is no more longing. That is until Monday, June 13 happened.

It’s 7:33 in the evening, and he’s exhausted… and starving. Upon close inspection of the contents of his refrigerator, he concludes that he cannot survive on beer alone and decides to order Chinese “food” (no real food makes you hungrier than you were before, 30 minutes after you’ve eaten it). Cracking open a cold one, he plops down on his couch. As he begins to dial the number, his phone begins to vibrate and her name shows up.

Just like that. On Monday, June 13, she chose to come back into his life via a phone call.

Staring at the name, it occurs to him that 1. Even after all these years, he has never thought to delete his number, 2. She still has his number. Number 1 makes him feel pathetic. Number 2 makes him feel oddly happy. He wonders whether she feels the same way. 

He snaps from his rumination realizing that he might miss the call. Cautiously, he answers the phone, playing it as cool as possible.

He says hello, and she says hi, with a friendly tone that suggests they’ve been in constant contact and she isn’t randomly calling after what seems like ages. This only serves to fluster him more. Trying to keep it cool, he asks who’s speaking. She lets out a short laugh and says coyly, “don’t be that way; you know exactly who it is.”

He smiles to himself knowing that the charade is up. “Hi,” hey says more relaxed, “how are you?”

After the initial awkward question and answer session that happens between two people who haven’t heard from each other in quite some times, the conversation begins to flow more naturally. There are tense moments, moments when the past is brought up, but mostly there are smiles and laughs on both ends of the line.

“Shit,” he hears her say, “it’s 2:30 in the morning?!” He glances at his watch and realizes it is. “I’ve got a super important place I need to be at in the morning, so I need to get some sleep. Don’t be a stranger.” “It was nice hea-” She doesn’t give him time to respond before the line clicks dead.

A rather abrupt end to a good conversation; he wonders what it all means. No time to dwell on it, he resolves. He too has places to be in the morning. After a quick shower he lies down and falls asleep. No sooner had he closed his eyes, his cell phone buzzes him awake. He reads her text.

“Look, I’m in town and I’d love to see this city while catching up with you. I’m staying at the Omni hotel on Chestnut and 4th. How’s 7:30, Friday night for you? If you’d rather not, I understand.”

A minute later another one arrives:

“Actually, I won’t be so understanding… Just show up. Goodnight.” 

He texts back, “Be ready by 7:20.”

The question of how she knows what city he lives in doesn’t even occur to him until the next morning. He hasn’t heard from her in six years. He’s moved around quite a bit; four different places to call home in six years.

“How did you know I live in Philly?” he texts her.

“All your questions will be answered on Friday. Promise.”

His stomach growls and he realizes that he never got to feed the beast.

While he waits for his hot dogs in the microwave, he decides that grocery shopping has just taken priority on tomorrow’s to-do list.

He stumbles to his car, drunk, and screams ‘YOLO!’ His friends cheer him on wildly and he speeds off like a bat out of hell. The following day, one by one, they find out he crashed his car into a guardrail in excess of 80 mph and died.

He is remembered by many of his peers as one who “lived his life to its fullest.”

After he is lowered into the ground, tearfully, his mother thanks each and every one of his friends for attending his funeral. She politely smiles through the tears, but inside, she is seething. There is an inordinate amount of anger for these so called “friends” of his.

A short while later, she is sitting in the lush office of a lawyer who contacted her after her son’s death. He says she has a credible case against the founder of this YOLO movement; A young Canadian musician (if you can even consider what this noise he makes is called music). A case with a very high possibility of her coming out with a generous settlement. The money won’t bring back her son, but it will help cover the funeral costs and hardships of being a widow and now a mother to a deceased.

Following a lengthy and expensive trail, the Canadian, one Aubrey Drake Graham is cleared of all charges and responsibility. Citing that he is indeed not a role model, only an entertainer.

Penniless — duped by a greedy lawyer, heartbroken, with no one left in the world she falls into a deep depression.

One day she hangs herself.

“If you should die before you wake…” says the clown to the terrified litte boy who stares at him silently in disbelief. He howls with laughter before retreating into the closet from whence he came.

Little Joey never sleeps again. Ever.

FREE DAY! Write any scene you want!

“I’m going to fail.” Princess had been repeating it over and over for the last few minutes. The strongest girl Ivan knew was breaking down in his arms and he had no idea what to do. It was rare that she ever got like this. She was resilient, she prided herself on it. She didn’t cry — tears were for “stupid little girls,” as she so often put it. And if there was anything Princess wasn’t, she wasn’t a stupid little girl.

But on the rare (and I do mean rare) occasion that she couldn’t keep her emotions in check, she would turn away from Ivan or hold him close. So close, burying her face into his shoulder so that it was impossible for him to see the tears welling in her eyes. Those were her two rules:

1. Never cry.
2. If rule 1 fails, never let them see you cry.

Ivan knew better than to try and move her or force her to look at him. He was feeling helpless, he’d never been much good at consolation. It was for this reason he hated seeing anyone cry, because of the overwhelming feeling of helplessness. After her declarations of her impending failure became whispers, Ivan did the only thing he could do, he whispered into her ear “you’ll be ok, you’ll do fine.”

They stood there, just the two of them, in that chilly parking lot, bathed in an orange glow of street lamps, until she regained composure. Wiping her tears on his shirt, she let him go to get into her car. She turned to him, “if you tell anyone what happened here tonight…” she threatened jokingly. “Don’t worry about it, all SLG moments are confidential,” Ivan called back to her with a wink as he began to walk away. It wasn’t the most normal thank you, but Ivan knew Princess, and Princess knew Ivan; that was all needed to be said.

How was your character’s childhood? Write a scene about them as a child. How was their home life? Their family? Their upbringing? Where did they grow up? What friends did they have?

Growing up in the quiet suburban haven of East Bethel, Ivan longed for so much more. Even at a young age, he knew he wasn’t going to be like his parents. No siree! East Bumblefuck, as he so affectionately called it, was not going to be his cradle AND his grave like his parents, their parents before them, and their parents before him, and so on, so on till the beginning of time. He was going places and he was never going to look back. He longed to go to a far away place that offered new people. People he didn’t know — people he didn’t go to school with, as it would seem, forever.

Ivan’s friends didn’t quite see it his way. Most of them were content to stay here. Not many planned to go to college. Many had that (what Ivan thought to be insane) notion that staying in East Bethel was the best option. Leaving from here was a risk. Sure venturing out might lead to something good happening, but what if it doesn’t? At least when you stay, nothing bad will happen.. nothing ever happens in East Bethel. Nothing bad, nothing good — life just happens. And that was a bargain many of them dreamed for. But not Ivan, this place was small, and growing smaller by the day. He would not suffocate here.

This whole damn town was sad. Everything about the people in this town could be illustrated by his family. Overworked, under paid. Making it by ok, but not really happy. His home was like a black hole. A black hole filled with sad, sad folks sucking you into their endless misery.. just like everyone else here. Family dinners were the worst; not much was said, no one made much eye contact. Occasionally he’d look up, hoping to see his parents making googley eyes at each other, but they never did. Their marriage mirrored this towns history, once bright and burning with life, but slowly fading away.

Often times throughout the day, he’d walk around humming that one verse from that one song that summed up East Bumblefuck perfectly: 

“Everybody says this place is beautiful, and you’d be so crazy to say goodbye. But everything’s the same this town is pitiful, and I’ll be gettin’ out as soon as I can fly.”

That made him smile, graduation was right around the corner, and Ivan was about to grow some wings.