There were always two of you.
One who stood by the window and dreamed.
And one who never moved.
You met in a place full of rules and locked doors, in hallways that echoed with footsteps that weren’t yours. He was quiet, observant, too careful. You were the one who stared too long at the sky. Not because you believed in heaven. Just because you wanted out.
You kept talking about leaving.
He kept giving you reasons not to.
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“They’ll think you’re ungrateful,” he told you once.
“They already do,” you said.
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You never had wings. But you didn’t need them. You had legs. You had fire. You had the kind of ache in your bones that could only be soothed by movement. So you started walking — not far, not at first. Just away from the routine, the rules, the people who called it protection when it felt like a cage.
He stayed.
You always came back.
Not because you needed to.
Because he never asked to come with you.
And part of you hoped he would.
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You’d sit beside him on the rooftop when the sky turned orange and cracked open.
“I walked until I didn’t know the street names anymore,” you’d say.
“Weren’t you scared?” he’d ask.
“Always,” you’d answer. “But it’s better than feeling nothing.”
He never said it out loud, but he was always scared too. Of the world. Of himself. Of what might happen if he took one step off-script.
You didn’t hate him for it.
But you hated how it made you feel — like love could be a trap, too.
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“I think I’m going to leave for real this time,” you said.
He didn’t look at you. Just picked at the threads on his sleeves. “You always say that.”
“Yeah, but this time I won’t come back.”
Silence.
Then, softer than ever: “Okay.”
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You didn’t run. You didn’t even walk fast.
You just left.
No wings. No flame. Just one foot in front of the other. The road opening wide like it was always waiting.
He watched you go.
And stayed.
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They say two birds sat on a wire — one sang, one just watched.
But really, you were just two people. One who couldn’t stop dreaming.
And one who was too afraid to move.