The Space Between Us

choices

-RILEY-

Growing up, my life felt less like a story and more like a script—one I wasn't allowed to rewrite.

Orders came fast and firm, and I followed them like clockwork.

But as the years went by, something inside me started to rebel against the constant loops of commands.

I couldn't help but wonder: what would I ever become if I couldn't even make my own choices? Who was I when everything about my future had already been penciled in?

Not that my parents seemed to care. Oh, they had everything figured out for me.

My destiny? A carbon copy of my older brother's life—complete with a shiny degree, and an eventual seat at the helm of the family business.

The cherry on top? Never questioning the plan. To them, I wasn't a person with dreams or ambitions; I was an asset, a tool, meticulously groomed to play my part in their grand design.

So, I did the one thing they never saw coming—I ran away.

It wasn't entirely a spur-of-the-moment decision. I mean, I'd spent countless nights running through the "what ifs."

The idea of freedom sounded great on paper, but out there, in the real world? It was like staring into the abyss—terrifyingly uncertain and thrilling all at once.

Still, something had to change, and if nobody else was going to give me a choice, I'd take one for myself.

Running through the streets felt different this time—probably because it was.

It wasn't the carefree sprint of someone chasing a bus or dodging rain; no, this time it felt like I was fleeing for my life. With a rusty suitcase in hand, packed in a hurry with only the essentials (and possibly some non-essentials if we're being honest), I wove through the chaos.

Flickering city lights blurred past, mixing with the acrid scent of cigarettes and the crisp freshness of rain. The jostling warmth of crowds added to the overwhelming sensory assault.

It was nauseating, suffocating, but I had to get away.

No—I needed to get away.

My escape plan was borderline genius: I'd leave at around 11:30 pm. Late enough for my parents to think I was asleep but not so late that a quick detour to the bank would raise eyebrows.

Armed with one of my dad's credit cards—casually swiped on my way out—I was ready to drain it for all it was worth.

Practical? Probably not. But desperate times call for desperate measures, right?

By the time I stopped for breath, the cacophony of honking cars and enraged drivers was pounding in my ears, louder even, than the frantic drumming of my heartbeat.

I leaned against a grimy cement wall in a deserted alleyway, illuminated by a sad excuse for a light—a dim, flickering bulb dangling precariously overhead.

The air reeked of rotting garbage and urine, which, lucky me, added just the right touch to my already queasy stomach. I buried my nose in my sleeve, inhaling short, sharp breaths that did little to restore my composure.

It was then I realized the sobering truth: I hadn't run this much in years, and my neglected physique was staging a mutiny.

Still, I had no choice.

Weak muscles and labored breathing aside, I pushed myself forward, leaving my phone behind so my parents couldn't track me.

Time blurred—I didn't know whether hours or minutes had passed—but one thought fueled me.

Just a little further. Just a few more steps.

If I could make it to the bank and get enough money, I'd be free.

Truly free.