The earbud crackles between us, Radiohead humming low like a heartbeat neither of us can say out loud. Left side’s hers. Right’s mine. Steve’s old truck grumbles beneath us, half-alive, held together with duct tape and a miracle, chewing up the highway like it’s got somewhere to be. We don’t. Just away is enough.

She hasn’t looked at me in twenty minutes. Just pulls her sleeves over her hands and watches the dark roll past her window like it might reach in and grab her back. And I get it. I really do.

The plan was always simple: leave. Not run—escape. There’s a difference. She knows that.

I met her in the one place no one was pretending to be okay. It was after school, some student meeting thing, I don’t even remember what for. Everyone was bored, checked out. Except her. She was sitting in the corner with a notebook and her headphones in, eyes scanning the room like she could see through people. Not in a mean way—just like she was tired of pretending anything was fine when it wasn’t.

I’d seen her around. She was quiet, sharp, not the kind of girl who wasted time on people who didn’t mean what they said. So I didn’t say anything. Not at first. Just… started sitting near her. Day after day. I don’t know when we started talking. Or how. It just happened slow. Like peeling off old paint and finding the color underneath.

The first time I walked her home, she asked if my hand always shook like that. I lied and said it was from swimming. She didn’t buy it, but she didn’t push either. I think that’s when I started falling.

The first time she saw my house, it was quiet—too quiet. My dad had already left for the bar, my mom was upstairs somewhere, high or passed out. I tried to act normal. Like it didn’t smell like bleach and bitterness. She didn’t say anything, just stood in the doorway and looked at me like she was seeing me. Not the version I cleaned up for school. Me.

I think I knew then that if anyone could save me, it’d be her. And that terrified the hell out of me.

We started dating in pieces. I’d walk her to class. She’d sneak me sandwiches. We’d sit in silence and not need to fill it. She’d trace the scars on my knuckles when I couldn’t stop clenching my fists. And when I told her about the drinking, about the screaming, about how sometimes I felt like a grenade with the pin halfway out—she didn’t flinch. She just said, “You’re not them.” I wanted to believe her.

But I was slipping.

The night behind the gym—God, I can still feel it. I’d had enough. I was done. I’d stolen two pills from my mom’s drawer, thought I’d try something just once to not feel anything at all. She found me with one in my hand and this look on her face like I’d already died. She didn’t scream. She didn’t cry. She slapped me.

Hard.

Then pulled me into her arms and said my name over and over until it didn’t sound like something broken. That slap? I needed it more than air.

After that, I knew I couldn’t stay. Couldn’t breathe in that house anymore. I called Steve. Told him I needed out. Told him I had one person who mattered and I wasn’t leaving without her.

She didn’t even hesitate.

Now we’re here. In this piece-of-shit truck, with twenty-seven dollars, two bags, and her head leaning against the window like she’s waiting to see if I’ll mess this up again. And I might. I’m still figuring it out. But I swear to God—I’m intentional with her. Always have been. I memorized the way she says my name before I even asked her out. I remember every hoodie she ever let me borrow. Every lyric she hummed under her breath when she thought no one was listening. She’s not just some girl I ran away with. She’s the only reason I’m still me.

I reach for her hand. She doesn’t pull away. Just blinks slow like maybe—for once—we’re not running. We’re choosing.

I don’t tell her I love her. Not because I don’t feel it. But because if I say it, I might fall apart, and I need to keep it together until at least sunrise.

So instead, I ask, “You hungry? We can stop at that gas station. I think they’ve got food that won’t kill us.”