It was my 18th birthday when I left home. Not because I was ready — but because I was tired of waiting to feel alive."
I didn't leave with a suitcase full of dreams.
Just a backpack, some quiet rage, and a voice in my head that whispered,
"There has to be more than this."
Home had always felt… small.
Not in space, but in spirit.
Every day felt like a replay of the last.
Same walls. Same faces. Same silences.
I used to lie in bed staring at the ceiling,
wondering if this was it — if this was life.
Wake up. Stay quiet. Do what's expected. Repeat.
So I left.
Not dramatically.
No slammed doors. No middle-finger goodbye.
Just a note on the table and a long walk to the bus station.
I didn't know where I was going — only that I needed distance.
From the routine.
From the dull ache of being invisible.
From the life that never quite felt like mine.
And the strange thing is…
no one tried to stop me.
Maybe they thought I'd come back.
Maybe they didn't notice I was gone.
But I knew this was the beginning of something.
Maybe not something great.
But something different.
Something mine.