You can't outrun this
Out of bed, yesterday's clothes. Out of the house and down the steps. Unlock the car, slide in and close the door. Don't breathe, don't think. Start the car, hit the gas, leave him in the dust.
That was the plan. But you know what they say about plans.
The light filters through the curtains, but she's already awake. When night had fallen, and they were spent, he'd slept deep and peaceful. Like a rock. She likes the way he murmurs as he sleeps. She memorized every line of his body, the heat of their skin, the way he tightened his arms around her just slightly. She'd closed her eyes and slowed her breath, but still she hadn't slept.
But night is gone.
She slips slowly out of his grasp, careful not to wake him. Dressed quickly in last night's clothes, she tiptoes to the open door. She does not pause in the doorway, doesn't whisper a goodbye.
Grabbing the car keys off the hook, she shuts the front door with a click. She picks her way across the gravel driveway carefully. She doesn't pause to inhale the thick scent of pine that would remind her of him.
She climbs into the car, and checks for the black duffle bag stuffed under the seat. Starts the engine and pulls away. She doesn't look over her shoulder as the house shrinks into the distance. It's over now, what's done is done. This was always the plan.
The sun shines bright as she hits the main road. Squinting, she pulls the visor down. A photo flutters into her lap. Her eyes look before she can stop them.
It's a photo he took of her, early one morning, cross-legged on his bed, coffee cup in hand. She's laughing at something he said. It's the laughing that makes her foot twitch, that makes her almost slam on the brakes. Because it wasn't fake. She wasn't playing. How can you run away from that?
Almost. But she doesn't slam on the brakes, spin the wheel and head home. Wake him up with a kiss and burrow under the covers. Because he isn't her home. She doesn't have a home. Despite what his arms say. Despite her skin says. A long-broken heart knows better. There is no safety. There is no home.
The farther she gets, the colder she becomes. Goosebumps overrun her. She shivers and pushes harder on the gas. But she can't outrun the sob that startles her, rising from somewhere long-since closed off.
The truth is sudden, though she's known it all along. She's in a car full of money she doesn't want anymore, driving away from the one thing she does. Driving away from the first true safety she's known, away from what she's wanted all along.
But what does want have to do with anything? What difference has want ever made? This was the plan. This is who she is.
Faster and faster, foot like lead. The tugging in her gut, low and deep, is persistent.
Eight years gone by and she's still that girl, still running and running fast. But he isn't the same guy. Still warm, still safe, skin still feels like home. But stronger now. Strong enough, perhaps, to pull her back.