Hacked Hearts
The entire ride we held hands and I felt a deep rush of content.
There was something comforting, in the simple action of holding hands that made you feel safe and so loving.
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“For the last time, not every clownfish is called Nemo.”
The small kid didn’t care, he pointed at the group of clownfish and screamed. “Nemo, Nemo, so many Nemo.”
“Shush.” The elder guy, probably his brother shushed the small kid, grabbing his hand and walking away in the opposite direction.
The kid waved at the fishes. “Bye Nemo.”
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