Squinting out the taxi window, Milo whispered the address underneath her breath for the thousandth time that hour, her heart beating rapidly in her throat, her hands were inexplicably sweaty. Everything was about to change — it was as if someone had snatched the TV remote for her life and accidentally left it on fast-forward. Her bruised knee jiggled slightly, thumping against the back of the leather chair in front of her; for someone who had flown for over eleven hours, Milo Monty-Claire was wide awake.
"Ma'am?" The driver interrupted her thoughts, "We've almost reached your destination." He earned an enthusiastic nod from his passenger. Fred was from Northern Ireland and Milo could barely understand a word that left his mouth — the combination of his thick accent and refusal to speak slowly prevented her from truly understanding him, but she still nodded and hoped he hadn't asked her a question.
Growing up in Southern Florida, Milo's history with foreign accents was incredibly limited, the only one she could passably identify was if someone with a heavy Cuban accent spoke ridiculously slowly. As the Taxi slowed to a stop, Milo hastily shoved a handful of colorful money in her cab-drivers hands. "Thank you." She greeted him, "Y'all drive backwards here, and I probably would've died like twelve times."
Fred smiled politely at her, "What," He grumbled under his breath, "the fuck is a y'all?"
Hauling her luggage out of the back of the cab, Milo glanced up at her Aunt's house, a building that was practically overgrown with foliage. The mailbox was titled dangerously to the left, vines were tangled across the front porch and the front lawn was a graveyard for potted plants who had certainly seen a better life. Her breath clouded around her lips in frosty clouds, reminding her of the significant temperature drop — it reminded her of how an ocean separated her from her home and it reminded her that not so long ago, everything had been so much simpler.
Last week
"Are you insane?"
That simple question can spark a bonfire of answers — insanity is viewed as something we, as society, would typically like to avoid. But what if (there is always a "what if") we are the insane ones and those we label with insanity, are simply screaming in fear of the truth they see. What if those who are insane, simply act on impulse; they sprint in the other direction, leaving us all to think: who are they running from.....you or me?
Milo Monty-Claire wasn't insane, but she was acting out of impulse. (If she was going to be honest, that was like seventy percent of her decision making process) Ignoring her roommate's question, Milo let an exasperated sigh slip past her lips as she continued packing up her apartment, refusing to make eye contact with the other three bodies that inhabited the room.
"You can't just move halfway across the world." Her neighbor — Angela — snapped, crossing her arms against her chest. "Chester is right — you have a life here...you can't just leave it all behind —" She paused, her brown eyes flickering desperately to meet Milo's identical ones, "You can't just leave me."
Angela and Milo had grown up together, their friendship weaving in-between their lives like a vine — a memory from Milo's past wasn't complete without Angela. Their childhood had been a whirlwind of scraped knees and inside jokes, sticky fingers and braided hair. It had been lazy days by the beach and endless nights, filled with sour secrets and itchy truths. The childhood they had shared seemed to have never ended — (Dan, Angela's boyfriend, agreed. There had been countless times where he'd come home to find Milo in their kitchen, baking a cake with his girlfriend. Dan just wanted to have sex, truly, this was really all he ever wanted....but it's slightly impossible when the object of your affection is already preoccupied.) but here is the truth: We all have to grow up sometimes, despite how absolutely horrible of an idea that is.
