”One More Exit”

You kept a packed bag under your bed—not because you had somewhere to go, but because you needed to believe you could leave if you had to.

The smell of weed lingered on your clothes like armor. It dulled the sharp things: the screaming downstairs, the heavy quiet after, the way your chest ached in the mornings before you even got out of bed.

Kevin never asked why you stayed high. He already knew.

He never asked why you flinched when someone shut a door too hard. Why you avoided mirrors. Why you wore long sleeves in August.

He just stayed.

That night, you showed up at his house with glassy eyes and your hoodie pulled low, the straps of your backpack cutting into your shoulders. You didn’t say anything. You didn’t have to.

He opened the door and stepped aside to let you in, his hand gently brushing the small of your back.

In his room, you dropped your bag in the corner like you were done pretending you might go anywhere else. He sat on the bed, watched you pull your knees up to your chest like you always did when you were trying to disappear.

“I almost left today,” you said softly.

He didn’t look surprised. Just calm. “Where would you go?”

You shrugged. “Anywhere. Somewhere I’m not… me.”

Kevin leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “What if you didn’t need to run? What if you just needed somewhere to stop falling?”

You looked up at him then—tired, vulnerable, a little angry at how much you wanted to believe that.

“I’m tired of holding it all,” you whispered.

“Then don’t,” he said. “Let me carry some of it.”

You shook your head. “You don’t want what’s inside me.”

“I want you,” he said. “All of you. The good parts, the ugly parts. Even the parts that want to disappear.”

You broke, quietly.

He reached for you—arms open, waiting.

You crawled across the bed like you were trying not to fall through the cracks, and he caught you, tucked you under his chin like you were made of something breakable and sacred.

And you stayed like that for a long time. His heartbeat in your ear. Your fingers twisted in the fabric of his shirt. The ache in your chest softening for the first time in hours.

You didn’t leave that night.

You didn’t get high.

You just existed. With him. Breathing the same air. Holding the same silence.

And somehow, that was enough to feel like escape—without having to run.