Multiple choice (longer text)

Last month I decided to take a short trip alone to Edinburgh. I had wanted to go for years, but I always waited for a friend to be free. This time I booked a cheap train ticket and promised myself I wouldn’t change my mind. On the morning of the journey, I felt excited, but also a little nervous, like I was doing something “too grown-up” for me.

At the station in my town, everything went wrong at once. The screen showed my train was leaving from a different platform, and people started walking quickly in the opposite direction. I ran with my bag hitting my leg and my coffee spilling onto my hand. When I finally reached the platform, the doors were already closing. A man in a bright orange jacket saw me and held one door open for a second. I got on, breathing loudly, and tried to say thank you without sounding silly.

The trip became calmer after that. I sat next to an older woman who was knitting a blue scarf. She asked where I was going and then told me about her first solo trip, which happened when she was my age. While the countryside moved past the window, I realised I was smiling for no reason. I still checked my phone every few minutes, but I didn’t feel as worried as before.

When I arrived, the air felt colder and cleaner than at home. I walked up a steep street to my hostel and dropped my bag on the bed. Later, I joined a free walking tour. The guide spoke quickly and made jokes, and the group laughed together even though we were strangers. At the top of the hill, the castle looked dark against the grey sky, and for a moment I felt very small—but in a good way.

That evening I ate soup in a tiny café and wrote postcards I wasn’t sure I would send. I thought about the man who held the train door and the woman on the train who spoke to me so easily. I didn’t suddenly become a different person, but I understood something simple: I can be nervous and still go. On the train home, I kept looking out of the window, already planning where I might travel next.