Scrolling through the flight options, I finally find a ‘change flight’ option and click on it to check their availability.
My hands are shaking so badly I can barely type.
The screen loads for what feels like an eternity, showing no available flights until tomorrow.
Fuck.
I press my shaking hands to my face, trying to steady mybreathing as my chest becomes rigid, the walls of my car closing in around me.
Steadying my breathing, I look around my surroundings one last time, the one where I curated my life, where I thought I’d spend it with Brian forever.
It’s the place where I used to be happy and make videos.
My hands tighten on the wheel. “No more,” I whisper.
I start the car. The hum of the engine fills the silence. Backing out slowly, I check my mirrors even though no one’s around.
Every red light feels too long. Every passing car is too loud. But the farther I go, the easier it becomes to breathe.
I don’t even realize where I’m headed until I’m on the freeway, the city lights fading in the rearview mirror.
The 405 extends ahead of me, and I roll down the window, feeling the cool air sting my face.
Salty breeze wraps around, and I let myself scream, releasing everything I have been holding in.
I stop at a red light, the glow washing the inside of my car in a dull, pulsing crimson.
My hands are still shaking when I pick up my phone.
I shouldn’t be doing this while stopped in traffic, but I do it anyway.
The map loads again, that thin blue line stretching impossibly far across the screen. I zoom out once, then again. The distance feels unreal, like something meant for someone braver than me.
A twenty-nine-hour drive from Santa Monica to Tennessee. Fuck.
I let out a shaky breath, staring at the number.
Twenty-nine hours of driving. Of gas stations, roadsidebathrooms, and cheap coffee—twenty-nine hours of being alone with my own thoughts.
I glance back in the rearview mirror and imagine staying.
No.
My grip tightens on the steering wheel.
Twenty-nine hours suddenly feels manageable.
The light stays red, the seconds ticking by on the crosswalk sign. I watch a couple cross the street, laughing, completely unaware that I’m about to change my life in the middle of the intersection.
I tap the screen again, tracing the route with my thumb. It’s a long drive. It’s exhausting. It’s better than fucking staying.
The light finally turns green, and the sound of horns behind me snaps me back into my body. Dropping my phone into the cup holder, I ease off the brake.
As I press the gas, my chest loosens just a little.
Twenty-nine hours is nothing compared to a lifetime of feeling trapped, manipulated, hated, and unloved.
I pull into the flow of traffic heading east, and for the first time in eight years, I don’t look back.
