𝙈𝙀𝙉𝙏𝘼𝙇 𝙎𝘾𝘼𝙍𝙎, 𝙤𝙨𝙖𝙢𝙪 𝙙𝙖𝙯𝙖𝙞

𝙋𝙍𝙊𝙇𝙊𝙐𝙂𝙀

Returning home was never a priority—never a need, never even a whisper on the tip of your tongue.

After all, what kind of psychopath would return straight back into the arms of the man who ruined their life?

You, apparently.

Packing up the last five years of your life in five days and shipping it off to Japan wasn't on your bucket list for the summer.

Packing up the memories you had made, saying goodbye to the friends, your co-workers—

This was the second time you'd done this.

Yet, for some reason, it was so much easier than the first.

Maybe, because you hadn't needed to fake your death in order to leave this time around. Everyone has skeletons in their closet—yours just happen to have a long story behind them.

One last sweep around your cottage. One last picture to store in your mind for the rest of eternity—a silent reminder of what you had. What you had allowed yourself to lose. Again.

The orange walls you had always told yourself to paint. The chipped brick surrounding the fireplace. The arched doorways.

You'd had it all, twice in once life time. You'd had it all, and you'd lost it all to the same damn man.

You knew getting involved with him was like making a deal with the devil, damned are you for not believing it sooner.

Damned are you for not properly thinking this through.

It had been five years. Five years since you faked your death, and ran away to Switzerland to get away from him. Five years of your life, spent away from him.

And now what — you were supposed to waltz back in there and ask for help like nothing had ever happened? Like you had never "broken it off" with him in the first place?

Everyone else would welcome you back with open arms. Why wouldn't they? After all, they were the ones who helped you run away in the first place. They were the ones that told you to get away from him — run as fast as you could.

It's just unfortunate that you never listened.

One last sweep of your life, and you're on the first flight to Yokohama.

.

Its like you had never left in the first place. Like the language was never forgotten - how could it have been? You had been speaking to a few of them whenever you found time.

Navigating the city seems easier than ever — forcing yourself to step closer and closer to your impending doom seems to get harder and harder with each breath you take.

Your chest tightens.

The building is in your view. Your eyes fall to the windows, looking at each individual glass until you reach the third window on the top row.

You'd remember that day like it was yesterday — leaving the agency for the last time, or so you thought, looking back at that damned window and seeing him. Seeing the way he had to be held back.

It practically was yesterday, with how often you think about that moment.

It had hurt you, but it hurt him so much more. Pain that you'd never forget — unfortunately, he caused you so much worse.

Your bags had been sent to the apartment assigned by the agency. That was the easy part, and this just so happened to be the second hardest thing you'd ever do.

Stepping into the building with a heavy heart, you remind yourself to walk. To breathe. Your body doesn't run on autopilot like it used to.

Its like walking straight into the past. Straight into a distant memory, a different universe — one where you weren't forced to leave.