The Runaway


That was the day she left.

She dropped her keys, dropped her phone, grabbed her bike, went out the door, and left. She didn’t know where she was going, how long she would be gone, or if she would ever come back, but it didn’t matter. She had to get away. She couldn’t live this life that was expected of her; she was helpless, useless, hopeless. She pedaled furiously with her gaze focused on the horizon. Sweat leaked into her eyes and her thighs screamed in pain, but she couldn’t stop. She kept her eyes locked on the setting sun and she thought to herself, maybe if I could make it there, I would be okay. Maybe if I could just make it to beyond the horizon, beyond the setting sun, beyond the edge of the world, then things would be better. Maybe time, status, and money didn’t matter there. Maybe they don’t ask kids to grow up there. And maybe stress is nonexistent there. Heavy tears rolled down her face as her pedaling began to slow, because she knew that “maybe” was just a kinder way of saying that it can’t be. “Maybe” was for dreamers, and she was out of dreams. Eventually, her bike came to a stop and she gently lowered it, and herself, to the ground. Unable to go forward, unwilling to go back, she remained there and cried until she ran out of tears.


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