𝙵𝚘𝚛𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙱𝚊𝚌𝚔

I walk 36 steps to the edge, the summer skies above me. The sun glares at me as it has done all, 1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,10,11,12, years before. This time though, the edge feels different. As if, I could fall, without even stepping off. A hand pulls me 32 steps back. I don’t want to go. Not over 65 highways and hundreds of backroads. New house, new jobs, new me. I want to walk 34 steps back and stay here forever. The car horn honks again, and I walk 4 steps back.