You left the house when you were eighteen. Contrary to what you’d previously believed, the sky was so bright it hurt your eyes. It was as if the world was celebrating while your heart broke into pieces you had no time to collect.
So you left it there — your heart, along with the memories the past. No one called after you. I wonder if you hoped someone had.
One of your legs limped. You knew you couldn’t get very far walking, so you took a bus. You knew you had not enough money to spend, so you got off at the third stop. Next you knew you had no destination to go, so you texted your friends.
It felt like no one replied fast enough. The sun hurt you more and more.
People passed by, walked by, you whispered bye, but no one batted an eye. To them, you were just a stranger standing at a crowded bus stop, not getting on and not going away. You were a kid running away from home, but you were also eighteen. The world thought you did not deserve even a tiny bit of pity.
Something buzzed. A few of your friends said no, others texted maybe, one called to tell you a more appropriate time they could agree with. You put your hope back into the pocket along with the phone. You were sure your pants had hole on the inside and it would slip somewhere along the way — the last shred of positivity you had managed to keep.
The hours ticked by as the sun no longer tried to pierce through your eyelids. People moved on, so you decided to pick up the pace too. Your limping leg, your empty map — did it even matter now?
You were a kid running away from home and you were also eighteen.
Maybe the world did pity you and just couldn’t stop you from being lost.
Sragen, 26th August 2021