I used to dream about running. I reveled in the sting of air rushing my lungs, the steady rhythm of the race, and the quiet that came with it. I dreamed I could outrun the world. The course was familiar, a straight shot through woods I'd never seen with waking eyes; I knew just when to duck, when to leap, when to turn aside, how to cross the river. I was the master of that place. In the dead of night, with the moon peeking through the trees, I chased after something undefinable. The namelessness of the thing was a blessing; I was free to throw myself into the weightless joy of racing in my sleep. It wasn't until I broke through the tree line, until I stood overlooking the valley - our valley - that I first felt unease creep over me. I was too slow. I couldn't catch it in time. And as I stood with my eyes on the on the road far below, a heavy foreboding dropped into my stomach. All was not well; there was something there that did not belong.
And then I woke. It was a disorienting experience each and every time; I kicked, I whined, I got tangled in the sheets, and then I buried my head in the pillow and groaned. My body didn't fit me. My head was heavy. My eyes were bleary. I was unbearably clumsy. Did the morning have to come so soon? I was looking for something; no, I was chasing something. Chasing what? I had to get back - back where? But it was no use; the dream was gone. All that was left was the unshakable sense that I was needed elsewhere.
It was my senior year of high school. In mid September, as the leaves began to turn in Lima, Ohio, during that time reserved for nostalgia and college applications, I thought I had the world in the palm of my hand. Kurt and I were going to New York. We were applying, both of us, to a drama school in Manhattan, a school to which we both expected to be admitted, because we had to be. It was fate. Kurt and I spent lazy afternoons lying on my bed, propped up on our elbows, discussing our futures on and off Broadway. We were both destined to be stars, the biggest New York had ever known. At the very least, we were both destined to come close.
Kurt was in love. He had his heart set on a junior transfer from Dalton, a tall boy with perfect hair, and a perfect smile, and a perfect voice. His name was Blaine, and he was as in love with Kurt as Kurt was with him. When they told me they were planning to be married someday, I took it in stride. Theirs was a lifelong kind of love, a steady kind of love, and there was no doubt in my mind that they were forever. They were more than high school sweethearts, after all; they were lovers in the deepest sense of the word.
I thought I, too, was a lover, and so I didn't envy them. Finn and I'd had our ups and downs, but we'd pulled through, and we were better for it. Finn was a pretty boy; he had a good voice, and firm hands, and strong arms, and a dopey smile. What more could I ask for? When he looked at me, I could see that he loved me, and it was enough. I told him that I loved him too. I thought we, like Kurt and Blaine, were forever. In senior year, in mid September, as the leaves began to turn in Lima, Ohio, I hadn't grasped how quickly things were changing. As we stood, all of us, on the precipice of adulthood, it felt as though things would always be the same. Kurt and Blaine, Finn and I, high school, our friends; it was all forever.
"Kiss me." I sat on the front porch with Finn's arms around me and my fingers buried in his shirt. I pressed my face into his shoulder, stared up at him with pleading eyes, and smiled. He brushed his lips against mine. The sun was setting. The sky, a brilliant orange, bled over onto the roofs of the houses across the street, and in that moment, time seemed to slip away from me faster than it ever had before. I nuzzled closer to Finn against the evening chill and let out a long, quiet sigh.
"When the sun sets in New York," I said, "the whole skyline lights up. The sun catches the windows and the whole city fills with light."
"It sounds really beautiful," he murmured.
"The streets are dark, but if you look up, everything is golden," I told him. "The whole world is golden."
He tugged his fingers through my hair. "You really love it there?"
"Of course I do," I answered. "I can't wait to go." And I couldn't. I sat there in Finn's arms with the day closing on our Ohio town and I wanted, more than anything, to escape to my city, my future, my life. There was an impatience in me that left me struggling, tangled up in the hours and longing to be free of them. Would that I could have brushed aside the days and taken those first steps into a city on fire with the setting of the sun. I was desperate to be finished with a September that seemed to stretch before me like a thousand inexorable years.
We sat for a while longer until the sky pulled away from the rooftops and the light faded from orange to dusty blue. The cold was settling in through my sweater at last, and not even Finn's warmth was enough to hold it at bay any longer. I shivered.
"I should take you home," he said.
"I could stay a little longer," I replied, but I knew I couldn't, and so did he. Romantic sunsets didn't excuse us from high school responsibilities. With a soft huff, I let him pull me to my feet. I stood up on my toes as high as I could to kiss his mouth one more time. "We'd better go, then, or you'll be late getting back for dinner."
Finn smiled that dopey smile. "Yeah," he said, "I guess." He looped his arm around my waist and pressed his lips to my forehead. "Let me get my keys."
A dog barked in the next yard over. I watched it run circles on the grass, barking the whole way, until, with laughing eyes, it collapsed into a pile of limbs and fur. When it turned to look at me, it sat straight up and stared for a long moment. I cocked my head to one side. One by one, the street lights came to life with a flicker and a dull click. Just as Finn came outside with his keys, I caught sight of the first star. When I pointed, he shrugged his shoulders.
"I don't see it," he said, and he slid into the driver's seat. "Are you ready?"
My gaze lingered on that star for a long moment before I got into the car. By the time Finn left me at my front door, the sky was full of them.
The dream came again that night, more vivid than ever before. I flew through the trees faster, and faster, and faster still until the world was a blur rushing by on either side. I pushed until, for the first time, I felt fatigue in my legs. I felt burning in my lungs. I felt twigs and branches snap beneath my weight as I ran, and when I crossed the fallen tree above the river, I felt it creak and tremble with my passing. There was a relentless urgency to the chase that I could not resist, so that even when my limbs began to feel like lead, I didn't slow down. Only when I broke the tree line and felt the familiar weight of foreboding settle onto my back did I allow myself to rest. Even then, I paced back and forth along the ridge rather than stand still, my eyes on the valley below, my ears straining for any sound, any sign. There was nothing; I was still too slow.