She needs to leave; the past can't fit into her suitcase so she piles what's necessary – lessons and mistakes, staked like manila envelopes. She knows where she's going, barely (a city where she met this wonderful boy who turned out to be not so wonderful, (She thinks that she'll hate him, and the memory of what she thought he was, for always.) but she not going there to see him, not at all), and she boarded a train, the one with the scenic route, promises of escape through the rocky mountains.

She sits, finds a quite seat in the comer where she won't be bothered (she knows she's pretty, she know, and she really doesn't want to be bothered by some boy who can't see past that. This is her get away trip, and it's not going to be spoiled by another person who thinks she's nothing but a pretty face), and tucks her knees up to her chest, leaning back against the fake leather seat. They board the train, one by one. Men, woman, children all lined up in a single file, taking the row of vacant seats – the train is empty at 2:45 a.m, and she blinks her big brown eyes and wonders if the people boarding the train are as lonely as her. She puts her earphones in and hums along to the playlist she made; the person next to her gives her a dirty look, but stays quiet- she munches on a stick of gum and wonders why the people boarding are leaving from her town at town she's from is easily lovable, and she remembers once saying the only reason one would leave it was for the lack of sun. Now she's not sure.

She likes to think she can tell the other passengers stories just by looking at them – the man across from her is military, through and through – his dog tag hang perfectly on his starched shirt, short brown military haircut above sunken eyes. The young girl at the other end of the train, a runaway – valuables stuffed hastily in a school bag, fiddling nervously with her hair (and she can tell this girl's has never done this before, this running-away-and-leaving-her-world-behind; the girl is young, maybe 15, and remembering the first time she'd ran away, she offers the girl a smile. The girl turns away, frowning). The old man and woman sitting together, holding hand as if they were teenagers. The mother with her two children, bruises on her face and a look in her eyes that hold the wight of the world on her shoulders. She hadn't looked in front of her though, and she doesn't see this guy walking over until he stops in front of her and-

"Hey there."

And it's a shame, really, because he could almost be okay looking if his eyes were a nicer color and his hair was messier and he looked more like him. And his eyes are a brilliant azure and they are all wrong, and she swallows the lump in her throat and the blame she wants to put on his head and says nothing. He gets the message (she thinks he might have seen her eyes watering) and bows his head, walking away.

The train stops after three hours. It's 5:45; she walks off and thinks of how many times she's let someone down.

She takes a taxi to downtown Seattle – none of the stores are open yet, and she walks, puts her hair up as she buys a cup of coffee from the one open cafe (the woman that serves it to her is pretty; tired, obviously, but pretty. She doesn't belong in this cafe, serving tea & coffee to strangers on their way to nowhere, treated with rude words and headaches. The woman holds the coffee daintily as she hands it to her.) She wants to cut her hair – it feels constricting and overwhelming and overbearing and it's not her anymore; she never liked the way it hide her from world, but the not-so-wonderful boy had loved it. He had loved it. But in all honesty, she hadn't talked to him in years, and he doesn't matter. Not anymore. She makes up her mind to cut it tomorrow (she knows she won't. She won't ever. She's wanted hair this long since forever so she could be like the beautiful mermaids that everyone loved on TV, and damn it all to hell if she let her five year old self down). She finds the least bird-crap covered bench near Pikes Place and sits as she did on the train, knees tucked to her chest, back against the wall. It's a habit she's had, tucking herself away from the eyes of strangers.

People nod to her as they walk past. She can tell what they're thinking. They're right.

It's almost 10 a.m. And all the stores are opening. It's be a lot more poetic if it was still nighttime, if the stars lit the skies and rained on her. But it's stark Seattle daylight, and she's sitting on the edge of a bench so close to the Sound with a cup of coffee in her hand and the other shaking, callused hand on the edge of the bench.

She could visit him. (She was stupid and he was mean and that was their love story)

(She could visit the boy-with-the-brown-gold-eyes-and-the-too-wide-smile and tell him all she wanted him to want to hear and they could be that cliché, the one where the older, more experienced boy uses the younger, naive girl and then they break up and the younger, naive girl shows up at his doorstep {and it doesn't matter that maybe she resented him a little bit for making her predictable, and she hated to be predictable.} and begs to have him back and they live happily ever after -)

He doesn't deserve her, though.

She makes herself remember what he did and all he said, and that she is so much more then that younger, naive girl. She remembers what she promised herself, what she tries to remember; that he has no power over her, none at all, and he doesn't, and she can't let herself fall for him again, she won't go back to him, won't take him back. He's not worth it, he won't ever be worth it. He is scum, scumscumscumscum (scum that made her feel beautiful and worth it and alive and made her feel like she was something, for once) and it hadn't been real love, just a silly little thing they pretended to have; it wasn't, honestly, because it hadn't lasted long, hadn't it? They fell out of so-called love, and she was left with was a patch of empty sky that used to be hers and a hole to fill with black, boiling coffee that once had been his place, and, if she was being truthful, was still his little spot- the place that had been memorized and analyzed and compartmentalized and locked in it's own little file marked 'betrayal.'

And she'll never really be over him, but hell, she might as well try – she stops a taxi because she's twenty-five and she's never been to New York or anywhere, really and she's always been an impulsive girl.

She tells the taxi driver where she needs to go.

"Take me anywhere"