Sometimes after a dinner party, when the lights have been dimmed by too much wine, and the company no longer cares about the guide lines of polite conversations, they ask us how it really was.

Was it like in the movies?

Dodging cops, gazing out at dessert nothingness, making love in the backseat?

What was it really like?

They all want to know.

After the first dozen times of trying to explain it, we gave up.

They can't understand.

They can't understand the little things we've endure.

The big things we've fought against.

They can't understand how we would go for miles with no bathrooms, how little we would eat to conserve money for gas.

They wouldn't understand the sleepless nights we spent merely trying to fight back the nightmares. They don't understand the constant fear that never let you fall asleep…that was always nagging you, forcing you to look over your shoulder with anxiety.

They don't understand that being on the run may have brought Michael and I closer, but at a cost. Ever night we spend together for the rest of our lives, we cling to each other in fear.

We can't sleep apart for fear of waking alone. They would never want to know the truth, that being on the run wasn't pretty, wasn't an adventure that 'brought us closer' it was hell.

A hell that we would carry with us for the rest of our lives.

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