My breath catches.
Simple. Direct. Like it’s obvious. Like it’s easy.
Me:
I can’t just take off.
Soren:
You can.
A pause, then I see the typing bubble again. And I know before the words even appear.
Soren:
Come back.
Something shifts.
Deep.
Immediate.
The noise outside spikes—someone bangs into the wall and I flinch again, my body already halfway out of this space before my mind catches up.
I look around the room. At the half-unpacked suitcase I finally got back from the airline. At the clothes I never put away. At the space that never felt like mine.
There’s nothing tying me here. I just have a couple of suitcases worth of belongings. I can do my job from anywhere, as long as I have my laptop, a phone and an internet connection.
And I don’t think.
I don’t weigh it.
I don’t analyze consequences or timing or whether this makes sense.
I just move.
Laptop open.Flights to Ravelle.
Click. Book. Done.
My hands are shaking by the time the confirmation loads. Adrenaline floods my system, sharp and electric.
It feels reckless. Impulsive. Too fast.
And at the same time, completely right.
Like this was always going to happen. Like I’ve just caught up to something that was already in motion.
Me:
I booked flights. I’ll be back in a few days.
Soren:
Good. Come back here, stray.
My pulse pounds in my ears as I stare at the screen. A flicker of panic rises—quick, suffocating, threatening to overtake everything else.