I don’t tell anyone I’m leaving.
That decision settles in my chest long before I move, heavy and deliberate, like a door closing without a sound. It isn’t secrecy for the sake of it. It isn’t fear of being stopped.
It’s ownership.
The house sleeps around me, breathing slow and deep, unaware of the line I’m about to cross. Wood creaks softly beneath my feet as I move through the hallway, careful to step where I know the floor won’t complain. I’ve memorized these things—the sounds, the rhythms, the spaces between people. You learn quickly when you’re never sure how long you’re allowed to stay.
I pause at the door.
The air on the other side feels different even through the crack, warm and alive, carrying the weight of summer and something wilder beneath it. I slide my boots on, tighten t
