I remember once upon a winter night, you and I. We snuck away from home, escaping to the sea. You always loved the sea.

You told me, that night, that the sea was your freedom. Your liberty, your escape. I asked you what you meant, but you only smiled into your bottle of lemonade. I let it be. I should have demanded an answer. I could have helped you.

Why didn’t you tell me then?

The sea was- no, is still your favourite. I wonder if you would have said the same in a few years as we grew up.

You were running along the shore, barefoot, with pants rolled up and light laughter fading into the night as you sprinted further away.

I ran after you. I tried to catch up, but I was always one step behind, watching your footprints be wiped away by the rising tide, the water lapping at your heels.

You kept running. Eventually, I ran out of energy. I forfeited the chase, but you kept going like you would die if you ever stopped. I asked you to stop and when you turned around for a brief moment, I saw the faint tear lines reflect in the moonlight and the look of pure terror on your face.

I shut up. I let you go.

What were you running from, Alec? Was it me? Was it stress? Work? Love, or life itself? Were you sad? Were you afraid? Why did you keep running?

Since you’ve been gone, people act odd around me. They look at me as if I was going to implode. They treat me like a fragile porcelain doll, whereas they used to give me hell for loving you the way I did. And now you’re gone, now you’ve traded in your life for this awkward, thick silence I condemn the world for.

You may have found your peace, but I will never know what you were running from that night.