You tend to run.

That's the first thing I learnt about you. The real you. The person not personified by the persona.

You hide.

In silence, in smoke, in sex. When the world hurts, you make sure you don't. Even if it means everyone else will.

I've always been a fighter. I push. I can't ignore, I address. I don't play defence, I tackle the opposition. You love to say we're exactly the same. So I fought you.

I think we both knew we were a game. It was a fun one. It kept us close enough for comfort yet far enough for security. I used your weakness against you. My tactic: pull, then run. I relished in playing the player. I like to win.

But something made it different that time.

Something made me come to you. Something drew me each step closer and repelled each opportunity to stop and turn away. Something pulled me and ran.

Why did you look at me like that?

You knew I'd charge after you.

You knew your eyes would blind mine to the unresolved repercussions that would come with daylight and sobriety. You knew your extended silence would only amplify my still unanswered questions. You knew if you ran, I'd chase after you.

We still haven't spoken. You still haven't stopped. I still haven't caught you.

I guess you beat me at my own game.

You won the second I said, "Fuck it, I'll run away with you tonight."