2. Connor
Connor hesitates. His bags are neatly packed and ready to go. He's taking everything of value with him — everything else, he's leaving behind. He doesn't know what will happen to it — maybe Ryan will keep it, or Amanda will throw it away. Either way, he should say goodbye to them, to this room — to this house, in general.
After all, he's never coming back.
The place is empty — Amanda and Ryan are gone, checking the campus of one of the many universities that accepted him into their international relations program.
It feels cowardly, to leave this way. Guilt clutches at his chest, making it hard for him to breathe.
But he has to go — he will suffocate if he doesn't. He's already suffocating.
There's nothing for him left here — he's taking everything he cares about, and he has a plan. He knows what he's going to do, and how. He's not lost, not running away, and certainly not leaving on a whim.
But then why does it feel like betrayal?
He can picture his twin's grey eyes filled with hurt — with the same betrayal that threatens to drown him as he finishes closing his bags.
There's no turning back. Not from this.
"I'm sorry, Ryan." The words, though whispered, leave a sour taste in his mouth.
It's time to go.
He doesn't want to.
Yes, he does.
I'm going to miss Ryan.
He's going to hate you when he realises you've left.
I know.
You couldn't even say goodbye to his face.
I know.
You're a coward.
I am.
Ryan wouldn't do it like this. If he were to leave — he wouldn't; he's too loyal to Amanda —, he would say it to his face, perhaps even offer to bring him along.
But Connor was never as strong as him.
You're not good enough.
Shut up. Shutupshutupshutup.
It doesn't. Amanda's voice remains.
He grabs his bags mechanically, scans his room one last time to make sure he hasn't forgotten anything, then leaves.
He leaves the door wide open.
He checks every other room of the house before he finally heads to the front door, heart pounding, hands sweating.
Coward.
He locks the door and slips the key under the Welcome mat.
Coward.
He takes in a shaky breath, that worsens his nerves instead of relaxing them.
Coward.
You're not good enough.
Ryan will hate you.
This is why Amanda never loved you.
He needs to get away, now. The thoughts might get worse for now, but it's nothing compared to how it would be if he stayed.
He can't stay.
He needs to leave.
He makes to get rid of his cell phone — throw it into the first bin he sees —, but he can't help himself.
I'm sorry, Ryan. We'll talk again, I promise.
He sends the text, considers waiting for a reply.
He throws the phone away, before he can change his mind, then runs.
He runs and runs and runs. He can't do anything else but run. He's trying to run away from the only home he's ever known — the cage he's always been locked in.
His brother deserves better than him. They both deserve better than Amanda.
Either way, Ryan loses.
Maybe one day, he'll be brave enough to contact his brother — to apologise for leaving him behind. Maybe one day, he'll explain that he didn't stay, didn't ask him because he knew his twin would never leave. Maybe one day, he'll admit to his brother that he would have stayed if he'd asked him to. Maybe one day, he'll be strong enough to recognise that he could never handle rejection, especially from his twin, his only family.
But until then, he runs.
I'm sorry, Ryan.
We'll see each other again.
I promise.