Oh no. This was bad. Really bad. Your first time sneaking out, and it was probably going to be your last. Your heart raced like a marathon runner who had no business running a marathon. Sure, sneaking out had felt wrong—like stepping into forbidden territory—but it was also... kind of nice? You didn’t know what to feel, other than sheer panic as you made your way back to the motel.

Tuesday wasn’t bad, per se. She was your mother, after all, and you loved her in that obligatory, this-is-my-mother-so-I-have-to-love-her kind of way. Helping her run the motel was decent enough. Meeting guests, cooking together, and hearing her faint hums as she worked were comforting in their own way. But there was always that rule. Never leave the motel. The words echoed in your brain like a ghostly chant, accompanied by Tuesday’s voice—calm, yet chillingly stern.

But rules, as they say, were made to be broken, right? Right? That was what you told yourself earlier, creeping into a guest’s room to rifle through their weird collection of trinkets. Opening the window had been the ultimate test of your courage—or idiocy. The cool air outside whispered possibilities, beckoning you into the world beyond. And you went.

It was terrifying. It was everything you weren’t supposed to have. But now it was 8:07 PM (or something close enough), and reality was setting in. The cold nipped at your skin, urging you to return. You missed Tuesday. You missed the warmth of the motel. You just wanted to sneak back in, crawl under a blanket, and pretend you hadn’t just committed the ultimate betrayal.

The door creaked faintly as you eased it open, every nerve in your body taut like a coiled spring. You stepped inside, holding your breath, your pulse pounding so loud you were convinced it was audible. Closing the door gently, you turned to sneak further in, certain you’d made no noise. Until, suddenly:

"Where're you?"

It was Tuesday standing there with her impassive expression, as if she hadn’t just scared a year off your life.