Go

You sit; bleary-eyed watcher as the TV flickers on. Your mum chose the channel and for some reason you're still here, alone, letting each picture blur into the next whilst you drift in and out of sleep.

It's quiet tonight and the dogs are being still. You know you ought to head to bed but you don't want to move. Moving an inch will make the difference between awake and asleep and even though you're not quite in either state, you know which of the two you'd prefer right now. It was another long day -- has been a lifetime of long days, it seems; every penny scraped and every moment dragged out to the point where tomorrow seems like a distant dream you'll never reach.

You decide to stay on the sofa and brave the crick in your neck that's sure to find you in the morning.

Go by Livingston is on in the background when the sensation of falling hits you out of nowhere. You jerk your head, eyes latching onto the surfer on screen. No, wait, snowboarder. You grumble softly to yourself as you snuggle further into the sofa cushion.

Behind closed eyelids, your mind remains in that spot between fully asleep and awake; that place where music and light seems endless. You dream of the mountains, and when your conscious mind does take over, it's left with the soft sensation of snow on skin.

But, you forget quickly as you always do and the dream tucks itself away into that spot in your brain you can't access on command. Soon, you forget all about the mountains and the music and the feeling of euphoria that had consumed you in a single moment of unconscious slumber. All that's left is more of yesterday.

Life plods on as life does. You go through each motion feeling like you're searching for something you'll never find.

You don't know it, but you continue to dream of the mountains.

At your desk, your eyes instinctively blur over words you don't want to read and you find that you're more there than here. Your colleague is looking at you with a barely contained grin and smothers a laugh with his hand.

"What?" You frown at him, hand twirling through hair as though to catch non-existent lint.

"You were humming," he laughs.

You pause. "No, I wasn't."

"You were," his chuckles increase as he looks at you and shakes his head. "What's going on in your mind? Monday got you?"

You give a half-hearted laugh. "Suppose so."

You turn back to your screen and try to make sense of the blog which won't write itself -- though you wish it would -- and realise that you don't really know how you got here; writing this, doing this. If you think about it too much, you'll make yourself sad.

Not thinking is the tool of the office worker. Not thinking will save you from doing something stupid; like quitting. In the back of your mind, a revolving door of adult fears plague you with quitting means no money, no money means no rent payments, that means no place to live and suddenly you're homeless, then you'll turn to drugs to keep the pain away and--

A laugh sounds from behind you. "You're humming again," he says.

You pause. You are humming. What even is that?

You ask.

Your colleague frowns. "Hum it again," he commands.

You do.

"I'm not sure," he says. "Just let it go -- it's an earworm; it'll come to you."

But you can't. From that moment on, your day is frustratingly fuelled by the--

It's right there. On the tip of your tongue, just teasing you. Not even words, just a melody of a forgotten song which feels like a version of familiarity rarely discovered.

Your mind pings back and suddenly you're certain that you've taken a wrong turn and are now stuck in that place in the back of your mind where lost things go.

You shove back from your desk, mutter something about a headache, and cut work half an hour earlier than normal. It's alright, though, your colleague says he'll sign you out when he goes. He owes you.

The bus ride home is filled with the patchwork assemblage of everyday patrons, but these aren't the familiar ones you usually see a half hour later in the day. Instead of the kindly balding gentleman who you usually exchange pleasantries with, there's a younger woman with shocking red hair. Gone are the little girl and her father; their places taken by a man roughly your age.

You catch his eye, smile politely before looking away, and are immediately drawn back. He's already turned away from you now, but you can't help but stare. He reminds you of someone, but you're fairly certain you've never met.

He catches you looking. "You alright?"

You're too curious to be embarrassed by this point but now he's looked directly at you, you're absolutely sure you don't know him and so you tell him as much. "Sorry," you continue, "didn't mean to disturb you."

He shrugs. "No big deal," he says. "I get it a lot. Think I just have one of those faces, you know?"

You don't know, but you laugh all the same. It's not until that night that it hits you. You know where you know him from.

Somewhere in the twilight of asleep and awake you fell from a dream and saw what you thought was his face. All at once, the earworm has a name--

You spend the rest of the night singing Go by Livingston and feel marginally better. By 2 am, you find the same channel re-running the movie and this time settle down with a glass of wine to watch it.

It's a silly thing, a rom-com -- the sort your mother usually likes. The love interest looks a little like the guy from the bus.

There's nothing about it which really stands out to you; it's not a masterpiece, so to speak. But it does speak to you in a way films typically don't.

One moment, you're snuggling into your sofa. The next, you're tapping away at your phone and booking flights for tomorrow afternoon.

Suddenly, life is a tornado of updates and apologies and broken contracts but you manage to get to the airport before it's really settled in. Then, before you know it, you're in Austria.

It's only when you're stepping out of the taxi which brought you from Innsbruck airport straight to the ski resort in Alpbach that it really hits you: what you've done and the consequences you're now sure to face. But, as soon as you catch sight of the first mountainside, you feel unbothered as to it all.

The crisp air breathes across your cheeks as you step out of the cab. Everywhere, blinding white encompasses you; simultaneously closing you in and freeing your lungs.

You still have the crick in your neck from the night you decided to sleep on the sofa, but it feels like a lifetime ago now.

You've only tried snowboarding once, years ago, as a child, on the dry slope, but you're confident you can remember the basics.

So, you head to the first shop you see.

Shortly after, you're standing at the top of the beginner slope, feet stuffed into oversized, padded boots with thick laces you could barely tighten into place. You were told they had to be tied in a certain way to support your shins, but with everyone around you either out of earshot or going too fast, it's hard to ask for advice.

You momentarily breathe, mind flicking through everything you can remember about the sport and the conversation you had with the guy who rented you the kit. Releasing it slowly, you take your stance.

Uncertain, legs wobbly, and head spinning with barely contained discomfort at what you're about to do, you test your balance on the back of the board. Legs bent at the knee, weight held so your back is facing the top of the slope, you let yourself drop.

A laugh escapes before you can help it. Pure, excellent excitement.

You allow your weight to carry you to the left, then the right, and you're zigzagging your way to the bottom before you know it. Gently at first, then with more speed.

You fall often, but get up each time and take it again from the top again and again.

You're really laughing now. It's spilling from you in breaths that aren't cold, but instead roaring hot. The heat starts in your chest, fluttering outwards until it's consumed you; mind, body, soul.

One moment. It only took one small decision, but you feel like this is where you're meant to be. Years of ceaseless routine, the day in day out monotonous trials of daily life are replaced with the repetition of balance, strength, and snow. The crick in your neck doesn't feel so bad on the ice.

And to think, you would have gone to work today.

You're just reaching the bottom for the third time when something clips your arm and you tumble to the ground again. The world spins; a swirling cascade of mountaintop, base, and neon skiers in the distance.

For some reason, it doesn't hurt. There's no time to think, breathe, or ask for help. One moment you're up and the next you're on your back, careening down the hill like a tiny tornado. It's hard to keep track of which body part is bouncing on the ice but when you come to a stop, you're sure that your board is hitting the back of your helmet.

"Shit!"

You assess yourself slowly, and though your breathing is a little strained as you straighten yourself out and flip yourself over, you're pretty sure you're otherwise alright.

"Shit, shit -- are you okay?"

You look up to see a guy not much older than yourself unstrapping his boots from his snowboard a little way from you on the slope.

You don't answer at first. You're still categorising your internal assessment of well-being.

"Seriously, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to knock into you. I'm pretty new at this and was going too fast and--"

You laugh. Covered in snow and bruises, you pinch the straps of your helmet and shake your hair out as you wrench yourself into a seated position. You're a little sore, but otherwise completely fine.

From the corner of your eye, you see the guy breathe a sigh of relief. Gloved hand reaches down, pulls you up, brushes you off. You roll your shoulders and grin at him.

"How long have you been doing this?" You ask.

"About a day," he snorts before pausing. "Midlands?" He asks.

"East England," you respond to his query about your accent. "You?"

"Northamptonshire," he replies with a smile.

And somehow that's all it takes. A near-deadly encounter and a smile are apparently all you sometimes need from a stranger. You spend the day together, going up and down the beginner's slope, laughing as the other falls and gets up time and time again.

It's amazing how quickly a day can become a lifetime.

Somewhere in the middle of the snow and the slopes and the two of you, time stretches out like a cat in the sun and settles in front of the window. Sometimes you feel like a spectator, caught between two ships that one day crossed paths,and wonder what might have happened had you not plucked at the smallest of threads.

An innocuous, fleeting moment shaped the future on a beat-up sofa in Cambridgeshire. You remembered why you were here.

And you never look back.