The cold night slaps my skin the moment I burst out the front door. I don't stop to grab shoes, or a coat, or even my keys. I just run.
I don't know where I'm going.
I don't know what I'm running toward.
All I know is that I need to get away—away from that house, away from the echo of a voice that shouldn't exist anymore.
My bare feet smack against the pavement as I sprint down the street. Each step burns, but it's nothing compared to the fire clawing in my chest. I run past warm-lit windows, families sitting down for dinner, couples talking on porches—normal lives I can't seem to touch no matter how far I go.
I feel like the air is turning into hands behind me, grabbing at my hair, my clothes, my breath. For a moment, I swear I hear it again—
"Jenny… you can't leave me."
"You promised."
His voice.
The ghost husband I should have left behind forever.
The ghost husband I married in a world that wasn't supposed to exist.
My lungs collapse inward, and I run harder.
By the time I reach an empty bus stop, my legs are shaking. I grab the metal pole just to stay upright. My breath comes in sharp, tearing pulls, and the cold air sears my throat.
I squeeze my eyes shut, but it only makes it worse. Instead of calming down, memories slam against me—
The old boundary land.
The unnatural wedding.
The dead baby from the gender reveal.
The stalker who followed me long before I knew why.
The second marriage.
The lies.
The fear.
It's too much.
Everything is too much.
I sink onto the bench, curl my arms around myself, and rock gently.
"I'm okay," I whisper, even though I'm not.
The street is empty. Silent. Unmoving. The kind of silence that presses against your ears until you start hearing your own pulse.
I force myself to stand and walk. Slowly this time. Carefully.
But something is wrong.
Every street looks familiar. Too familiar. I walk past a row of houses—turn left—walk straight—and see the same houses again. The same tree with the crooked branches. The same broken streetlight flickering like a dying heartbeat.
It feels like the town is folding in on itself.
Like I'm walking in circles even when I'm moving straight.
A chill runs through me.
"No," I whisper. "This isn't happening. I'm not back there. I'm not."
I swallow hard and keep going.
Eventually the sky begins to lighten, a thin gray bleeding into the horizon. I don't know how long I've been walking. I don't know how far I've gone. My feet are numb, my throat is dry, and my thoughts feel like tangled wires.
But when the first morning bus screeches to a stop beside me, I don't hesitate.
I step on.
Without thinking.
Without planning.
The driver glances at me—no shoes, no bag, shaking—but doesn't say anything. He only nods, like he's seen worse.
I head straight to the very back and sink into the seat, resting my forehead against the cold window.
The world blurs into smudges of green and gray as the bus pulls away from my town. Each turn takes me farther from the house I fled. Farther from everything I've ever known.
And somehow… that feels right.
I don't look back.
As the bus hums along, fatigue pulls at me. I drift into a half-sleep, and in that space between dreams and waking, I see flashes:
A small home.
A man with a warm smile.
A wedding ring that doesn't feel like a chain.
A baby wrapped in a soft blanket.
A new life I never thought I could have.
I don't know these moments yet.
But I feel myself moving toward them.
I clutch the back of the seat in front of me and let out a long, shaky breath.
"Maybe," I whisper, "I can start over."
Just before I drift into sleep, I feel a sudden cold slide over my skin. A whisper brushes my ear—
so faint I almost convince myself I imagined it.
"Run as far as you want, Jenny…
I can always find you."
I jerk around, heart hammering—but the bus is empty.
Just me.
Just Jenny.
Running again.
But as the bus carries me toward a future I'm desperate to reach, I know deep down:
The past isn't done with me.
Not yet.
And one day, I'll have to face him again.