Love is Just a Moment by Taylor Hill

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    By now civilization was already far behind. The cracked and boiling Italian highways had long ago given into roads that could scarcely be called roads at all—winding, narrow dusty tracks that ascended and curved around the great green and golden hills of the Sicilian countryside—while the rickety old bus that traversed them seemed like it could fall to pieces at any moment. Well ok then, Rebecca observed, taking a deep careful breath, if you’re looking for adventure then you’ve come to the right place—so there’s that at least.
    On one side of her, the vast steep hill (almost a mountain really) continued to crawl lazily towards the azure sky, its rocks and ridges entangled with olive trees and grape vines, while on the other, the side closest to her—the one right outside her window—it disappeared completely into heart-stopping nothingness. Outside her window, mere feet from the edge of the road, the hillside gave way to a steep and jagged cliff-face, beyond which the entire geography of the island lay beneath like a tapestry, from the rich white sands to the endless sparkling Mediterranean ocean. If only she could actually bring herself to look, she was sure she would find it beautiful. Why, oh why hadn’t she sat on the other side of the bus?
    Rebecca did not have a head for heights. Rebecca in fact, did not have a head for many things. A fact which had always bothered her and had, in a roundabout way, served as the impetus to take this spur-of-the-moment trip in the first place. It wasn’t like she was a coward, she could stand up for herself whenever she needed to, be assertive in the face of ill treatment from others (which, to her great frustration, she had found her anxiety seemed to invite more so than for others). No, it was more like something in her biology, a sensitive, uneasy constitution. Anxiety. Anxiety with a capital A. Always and so often, despite the truth of who she was, the fear was never far away. That was why, despite having now been almost three months on the trip of a lifetime—a language studies exchange in Naples—she had, for the most part, not enjoyed it at all.
    Run towards your fear, that was what the book said, live in the moment, meet each anxious experience with open, courageous arms, because that is your opportunity to grow. It made sense, even if she knew it mightn’t be easy. She glanced into her bag, at the crinkled spine of the self-help book she had bought on a whim late one night while browsing Amazon and ran her thumb thoughtfully along its edge. She could be more. She was ready to seize the day. All it would take was some good old-fashioned bravery. And so, with a gulp, she turned and looked out of the window, over the daunting edge and out at the majesty of the island below. And yes, it was beautiful.
    The world seemed to freeze, the electricity of anxiety converting seamlessly into the powerful exhilaration of awe as she looked out at the sprawling world before her. She was so lost in the sight of it that it took her a moment to realize that the world actually had stopped—or at least the bus had anyway. Raising her shoulders she looked up over the edge of the seat in front of her to see that they had pulled in beside a rusty old bus stop at the side of the road. It seemed like a strange place to put a bus stop—there was nothing around for miles, save for a stony old graveyard that looked like it hadn’t been in use for decades—but nonetheless there was one passenger waiting to board.
    Rebecca wasn’t one to stare (she preferred to avoid the possibility of an embarrassing confrontation) but she was still so stricken by what she’d seen out the window that she didn’t take her eyes away as the young man boarded the bus. Dressed in a dusty cream-colored linen shirt and old slacks, with a farmer’s cap pressed down over his smooth olive-tinged brow, the guy looked like he’d stepped out of the nineteen twenties. In one hand he held a leather