By morning, I had stopped pretending I could go back. I searched for cheap rooms, shelters, anything that didn’t require references or a credit history I didn’t have. Every listing felt either too far away or too temporary to trust.
A man at the counter offered me a newspaper after noticing I’d been sitting there for hours. Help wanted ads filled the pages, but every option felt like a door that required a key I hadn’t been given yet. I circled a few anyway, as if hope could be planned.
My phone buzzed again, this time with a message from an unknown number. “They’re involving the police. You need to come home and explain.” I stared at it until the words stopped feeling real.
For the first time, I realized leaving was no longer the hardest part—staying gone was-
