Run

He finally decided what would be best for him. His last two weeks at work were up, his plane ticket was purchased and his bank accounts emptied of their contents. His carry-on sized suitcase with only about a week's worth of clothes inside felt like a long-awaited relief to him: a load he could finally carry. Everything else in his room was staying exactly the way it was. His shelves, his car, his journal, his life...

He sealed the envelope with the last of his tears, mourning the life he once had. Inside reads:

To whoever finds this: I have gone somewhere. When I get there, I'll find a way to let you all know I'm safe, but until then, I know I just need to go. I know this is selfish and that I'll worry you, but I need to go. My car keys and cell phone are on my bed. I'll see you sometime.

None but a few really know why he left, and the few, as enraged and heartbroken as they are about his departure, they still honor him by not telling anyone why. They love him that much.

And he knows that. Which is why he ran. He couldn't take what was undeserved. He couldn't take the overflowing amounts of love that poured into him, all around him, especially from those who knew everything about him. The ones who have every right to disqualify him but instead band around him and help him stand again. Running makes sense, and because of that, he'll run as long as it takes to serve the right amount of time in the prison he and only he holds himself in. The prison with lies he chose to take a hold of, weld, make strong and sturdy, and cage himself in. The prison that he boarded up the windows to, so no light can get in, and no sign of life gets out. He'd rather be there than be free, because that, that is what makes sense.

We cry out for him, but nobody can make him come back. Nobody. Nobody except himself. He created his fugitive prison, and he knows how to get out. But nobody can make him choose freedom. Nobody. Nobody except himself.