Run Away

We could run away, just you and me, your hand in mine. Instead of staying here, hiding, hidden, invisible. Standing on your back porch, your hand in mine only because there’s no one home to see us. It’s dark and we can’t see the stars. There’s a bit of a cool breeze, but neither of us are wearing jackets. Jeans, tee shirts. You with your glasses and me with my eyeliner.

I’ve never been so sure of anything in my life. We’re too young. It’s almost a strangling feeling, invisible hands on my throat, squeezing. And when they release there’s that sharp inhale, new breath, new life. All the best of the world and the worst of it define this. I don’t want to trade this for anything, but sometimes I want to run my car into the side of a brick building.

I love you. Not a single doubt in my mind. I want to be with you, run away with you. In ten years I still want to be holding your hand. In ten years I want to be far away from all of this. We could run tonight, just get in my car and never look back. But you’re anchored here—for now—by blood and age and self-doubt. And I’m anchored to you.

So I’ll stay.

“I wish I weren’t afraid of things.” you say suddenly.

You look at me and I nod seriously. “Me, too.” It’s a double-meaning. I wish you weren’t afraid of things. I wish I weren’t afraid of things. Because, really, I’m stuck in the same place as you. I won’t tell my parent(s) either, even if I will run away.

“It’ll be okay one day though.” Your voice is a little more assured with that statement and I smile at you. The front door opens and your mom’s voice echoes through the house, calling our names. Our hands drop and it suddenly seems a lot colder outside.

I know you’re right. One day this will all be okay. But for now it’s cold and we’re still invisible.