The thing about me is, I only write when I’m feeling emotional. And right now I’m a mixture of sad and royally-fucking-angry. So I started to write this thing, I guess you could call it a start of a story. It’s nothing really but maybe I’ll continue it next time I fight with people eh?
She had been pretending to be asleep for over 4 hours. Her parents did seem a little worried when she said she didn’t really have an appetite and just needed an early night. What they didn’t know was that underneath the blanket, instead of her usual pajamas were a pair of denim pants, a red hoodie, and feet with shoes.
She got up and kneeled down to pull out the bag she packed only a few hours ago from under her bed. Earlier, when she planned on packing, she couldn’t quite figure out what to take and what to leave behind. So she decided to go with minimum amount of clothing, one picture of her family where she was only about 12, her trusty old camera, her journal and a stash of dollar bills that she’d been collecting since she cut out that picture of her dream car 3 years ago.
She looks around the room one last time. Makes sure everything is in place – the note on her bed, which took her hours to write, ironically had only a few words jotted down on it, “Don’t look for me. I love you.” – And her phone lay on her bed side table. She thought it was necessary to leave it behind if she really wanted to go away.
While she walked out of her house, she couldn’t help but feel relieved. Although, whenever she used to think of this moment, she was worried emotions would take over her and that she wouldn’t go through with the plan.
She walked away. And not once, did she look back.