You’d Leave?

This morning moved slowly.

For once, I didn’t wake up running for the bus, hoping I wouldn’t be late by 5:47 a.m. It even arrived late itself, probably because of the fog. I sat quietly, watching people drift in and out, noticing how many of us already looked tired before the day began.

I spent most of the ride on my phone. I learned that moonbows exist — lunar rainbows formed when moonlight refracts through water droplets. They require darkness, a near-full moon, and mist opposite the light to appear.

Everything has to align just right.

I wondered how different life might have felt if I had seen one.

Later, I learned cupcakes can be made from pancake mix. I had used it countless times without realizing that. Some things stay invisible until they don’t.

At one point I watched a man chase his upset soon-to-be wife for nearly a mile while she drove away in a car. It felt unreal. Someone caring enough to follow. To insist.

People like that exist.

Maybe not for me.
But somewhere, they do.

When I got to work, I felt centered. On time. Neutral.

And then a sentence returned to me.

You’d seriously leave all of this?

A roof. Food. Stability.

As if survival should cancel out harm.

I remember one night at Collingham Park. She told me to leave during a school night. I wandered the streets in mismatched pajamas, trying hard not to cry. When strangers looked concerned, I told them I was searching for a runaway dog I never had.

I didn’t want to go back.

But there was nowhere else to go.

Deep down, I still cared then. Somewhere inside me, I hoped she wanted me, not obedience. Not a tool.

I sat near my school in a gazebo most of the night, upset but still thinking about classes the next morning. School mattered. Not for them — for me.

I went back.

Police were already there.

She had said she never told me to leave.

But I didn’t hear wrong.

I became the runaway.

After that, arguments changed. Running stopped being forced and slowly became chosen. Each time I left, I stayed outside longer. First it was hours. Then days. Then weeks.

I survived on whatever I could find near HEBs. Parks were friendly. I chose the smaller ones. When nothing was nearby, I slept in or under trucks. Every day meant walking — at least ten miles.

My feet hurt. My body smelled.

But I was free.

People would tell me being outside was dangerous.

That I could be sexually assaulted. Murdered. Kidnapped.

I didn’t care much. The real fear was them.

I already had constant exposure to my parents.

The most danger I knew came from someone with access to me every day, not from strangers passing through on a whim. No stranger ever found a reason to harm me so often.

So I took my chances.

There was no yelling. No arguments. Just quiet.

For the first time, peace existed — even if only in small pieces.

Freedom first felt real when distance felt safer than home.