Going 78 Miles Per Hour | ✓

56 | Getaway Car

Aysa follows my gaze, alleviating the heat of her stare from burning a hole into my profile, and watches the apartment complex across the street. I won't lie and say I don't feel a tad of jealousy brewing in my stomach, watching those free and careless as they dance across glazed floorings and second-hand furniture. It didn't matter what life holds in that tiny box, just what it can bring.

I want that.

But I can't.

Aysa parts her lips, the side of her profile a perfect replication of a Vogue photoshoot. Her vision stares straight ahead, avoiding eye contact, and her breath hitch in her throat—almost as if she wants to say something, but closes her mouth before they articulate. I tilt my head to the side, laying sideway against the bumps of my knees. "What?"

"How honest do you want me to be?"

The hesitation in my answer startles me, and as a reflection, I found myself parting my lips the same way she did.

I love Aysa, with the way she manages to open my eyes to so many things I wasn't aware of, and I'll always appreciate the way she introduces me to the term emotional abuse and shines a spotlight on my situation—but her honesty is a terrifying concept.

She doesn't hold back, for me, for anyone. She forces you to hear the forthright truth, to listen to what you need to hear, and while I eventually end up appreciating her token of effort, that's not always the case firsthand.

I squint my eyes, wrapping my arms around my legs comfortingly. If her gaze was a light, she'll be comparable to a blazing sun. "How honest are we talking?"

She takes a second in thought. "Enough."

Should I? I contemplate on a variety of options, debating if I'm mentally capable of consuming her opinions without feeling attacked or defensive. After a couple silent seconds of pondering, I nod my head in response.

Aysa inhales a large sigh, almost medicating, leaving my gaze and returning to the front. Watching the slight glimmer of moonlight that casts over the uncovered windows, the slow dances of the couples that bounce on the balls of their feet. Her chest steady rising and falling, eyes moving from unit to unit, almost as if she's preparing herself.

"You're running away."

Attack. The first emotion that runs its course through my veins was a sense of defensiveness. My initial reaction was to object, to ask—what am I running away from? I escaped an abusive household that drained the living soul out of me and is living with a warm and welcoming family that accepted my mother and me with open arms. I'm not running away, I wanted to say, I'm just...I'm something.

But I knew the mistake I made last time; to build a fortress in preparation of an unrequited war, and I wasn't going to do the same this time.

So, I shut up and listen.

Aysa must've predicted my defensive stance, pausing torturously as blood ticks in my ear and sparing a small glance at my direction, before proceeding. "You're running away from Harlow and his family because you're not used to their type of environment."

I look at her through furrowed brows, not fully grasping her concept, "and what environment is that?"

"Being loved unconditionally."

I feel the wind being knocked out of me.

"My mom loves me—"

"I'm not saying she doesn't, I know she does," Aysa pacifies, trying to ease the defensive position I took upon myself, "but I'm saying I think you feel the need to run away from them because you need time alone. To process."