“You Don’t Have to Run”

There was always this part of you that felt like it didn’t belong anywhere. Especially not at home.

The walls there weren’t walls—they were traps. Every word thrown across the room by your parents felt like it echoed forever in your mind. You’d learned to stop fighting. You just stopped feeling instead.

Weed helped with that.

It dulled everything. The noise. The ache. The thoughts that spun too fast at night. You got good at hiding it: eye drops, gum, pretending to be tired from school. Nobody really noticed. Except Kevin.

He always noticed.

You were sitting in his room one Friday night, your legs stretched out across his bed, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands. A half-finished blunt sat in the ashtray by the windowsill. The window was cracked open—just enough to let the smoke slip out like a secret.

Kevin sat on the floor with his back against the wall, strumming his guitar lazily. He wasn’t playing a song, just letting his fingers move.

“I don’t get why you still go home,” he said quietly.

You looked at him, your vision soft around the edges. “Where else would I go?”

“Here.”

You smiled, but it didn’t reach your eyes. “Your mom already thinks I’m the burnout girlfriend.”

“She doesn’t think that,” he said, setting the guitar down. “And even if she did, I wouldn’t care.”

There was a pause. You looked down at your hands—slightly shaky. Everything felt slower, heavier, like your thoughts were moving through syrup.

“I don’t smoke because it’s fun,” you said finally.

Kevin didn’t say anything.

“I smoke because it’s the only time I don’t feel like screaming.”

He stood up and walked over, kneeling beside the bed. He took your hand gently, like you were made of glass.

“You don’t have to explain it to me,” he whispered. “I get it.”

You looked at him, and for the first time that night, your eyes started to sting—not from the smoke, but from something deeper, rawer.

“I feel like I’m rotting,” you confessed, voice breaking. “Like I’m wasting away and no one even notices.”

Kevin climbed onto the bed beside you without a word, pulling you into his arms. You buried your face in his chest, and he just held you. No judgment. No advice. Just warmth.

“You’re not rotting,” he said into your hair. “You’re hurting.”

You clutched at his hoodie like a lifeline.

“And I’m not going anywhere. Not until you believe you deserve better than this.”

The weed made your limbs numb, but not your heart. Not with him. With Kevin, the world didn’t feel so loud. He never tried to fix you, just sat with you in the silence, offering nothing but presence.

That night, for the first time in weeks, you didn’t light anything up before bed.

You just laid there in Kevin’s arms, your head on his chest, and listened to his heartbeat—slow, steady, real.

It reminded you that you were still alive.