The idea of leaving arrived fully formed.
Ari did not fantasize about it the way other children did—no dramatic visions of freedom, no imagined confrontations or last words. The concept presented itself as a logistical necessity, the next rational adjustment in a system that no longer functioned.
Home had become inert.
Not hostile. Not painful. Simply irrelevant.
His parents existed around him like furniture—useful, familiar, but emotionally distant. Their routines no longer intersected with his inner life. They did not notice when he stayed out longer. They did not ask where he went. They did not ask why.
Ari noticed that absence carefully.
Attachment, he realized, had already dissolved.
So he planned.
Not hurriedly. Not impulsively. He approached it the same way he approached everything else now—with quiet attention to detail. He noted bus schedules posted at the stop near his street. He tracked which days his parents came home late, which nights the house settled earliest.
He inventoried his belongings.
There wasn't much he needed. Clothes that didn't attract attention. Shoes worn enough not to be noticed. A small amount of cash saved quietly over months—change collected, bills folded and hidden.
He packed and unpacked his bag several times, refining what stayed and what went. Weight mattered. Visibility mattered.
Emotion did not.
Ari did not consider telling anyone. Telling implied negotiation. Negotiation implied resistance.
There was nothing to negotiate.
At school, the idea of departure produced no ripple. Teachers had already disengaged. Students would not notice his absence. Attendance systems would flag him eventually, but not immediately.
Time existed between action and consequence.
Ari intended to live in that space.
One evening, his mother asked him absentmindedly if he would be home for dinner the next night.
"I don't know," Ari said.
"Okay," she replied, already turning back to her phone.
The exchange confirmed everything.
Later, lying in bed, Ari examined himself for hesitation.
He found none.
No fear of missing anyone. No pull toward staying. No anxiety about the unknown ahead.
Only a steady readiness.
The noise inside him hummed at a manageable level, present but contained. He understood that leaving would not eliminate it. Nothing ever did permanently.
But distance might reduce variables. Distance might buy time.
He sat up and zipped his bag closed, resting it beside his bed. The sound was soft, final.
Ari lay back down, eyes open in the dark.
He thought briefly of the house as it would be after he left—quiet, unchanged, his absence absorbed without disruption. He thought of his parents noticing eventually, reacting with confusion rather than grief.
That, too, felt correct.
When he closed his eyes, he did not picture a destination. Destinations were unnecessary.
He was not running toward something. He was stepping away from what no longer held him. And as sleep took him, Ari understood with calm certainty:
There was nothing here he needed to carry with him.