It’s 2.30am in the central United States. I stand in the entryway of the apartment, shoes on, jacket draped over my forearm. The only thing left is the set of keys on the ledge by the door.
I’m torn, half of me wanting to grab them and run, let him panic and come looking for me, and the other half of me telling myself to knock it off, reminding myself that any „panic“ on his part is likely to be merely for show.
To make such an attention-grabbing attempt would be out of character for me anyway. That’s generally not how I operate.
Besides, even if I were to pull it off, it would likely backfire on me; I possess just enough impulse to daydream about acting in unpredictable ways, but too much impulse control to let my instincts to run overshadow the fact that I haven’t thought any further…
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