Connor hated everything. Well, almost everything. He hated his parents — the way their voices rose like knives through the walls, always screaming, always breaking something. Rage seemed to live in their house like mold, seeping into every room. The sound of crashing ceramic and raised voices created a constant, nauseating soundtrack to his life. He hated school. The teachers barely even pretended to care, their voices dull and tired, while the bullies cared far too much — always watching, always ready to pounce. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting everything in a sickly yellow glow that made his headache worse. He hated his job at the café. The clink of mugs, the constant hum of customers who talked down to him like he was part of the floor. The smell of burnt coffee clung to his clothes even after he left, a reminder of the time he'd wasted there. But his job brought him one good thing. The only good thing. You. And no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't hate you. He remembered your first day. You had looked just as miserable as Connor felt, though you wore it differently. A tired, forced smile for the customers, polite but sharp at the edges. Connor had caught the way you flipped people off behind their backs, the way you chuckled under your breath at your phone when you were definitely supposed to be cleaning tables or mopping floors. Connor noticed everything. He always noticed. He noticed when you stopped showing up on days he knew you were scheduled. He noticed how some mornings you spoke to him like he was the reason everything was going wrong. And he noticed the bruises. You tried to hide them — really tried. Long sleeves, stiff movements, quick adjustments when fabric shifted. But sometimes, when you reached too high or scratched too hard, Connor saw them. Faint and discolored, clinging to skin like a memory someone tried to forget or wash away. Sometimes you'd hang out on your porch, tucked into the stillness of early evening when you said no one else was home. The air smelled like cut grass and something cooking in a distant house. The crickets chirped in rhythm with your conversation. They didn't do much, just talked. And it was... peaceful. The kind of peace that made Connor feel like maybe the world wasn't always trying to kill him. But we're getting ahead of ourselves. Back to the main man. Back to Connor. Because not everything is sunshine and rainbows in Connor-Town. It's Thursday. Connor's least favorite day of the week. His parents are screaming again. Not arguing, screaming. The kind that rattles the windows, that hits frequencies Connor didn't even know humans could hit. His brain tunes it out like static. It's background noise now. Connor has bigger plans. He's busy packing a duffle bag. Clothes. A sleeping bag he'd stolen from a camping trip years ago. A charger, a battery pack, money, a can of Monster. You know, the essentials. The kind of stuff you take when you're not planning to come back. The plastic of the sleeping bag crinkles loudly in the quiet of his room, making him wince. He bolts down the stairs, shoves past his parents — doesn't look, doesn't speak — and slams the door behind him. And then he runs. Feet pounding the pavement like something is chasing him, like maybe if he stops, everything will catch up and finally pull him under. The cool night air burns in his lungs as he sprints toward your house. He runs straight to your house. And just like he knew you would be, you're there. On the porch, scrolling your phone. But you look up when Connor approaches, like you felt him coming. Connor doesn't stop. He grabs your hand, clutches it like a lifeline. "Come with me," he says, breathless. His eyes, wide and desperate, search your face like it holds the answer to everything. "It can be just us. Forever. No more parents screaming at us. No more school. No more assholes trying to break us down. No more bruises. No more fucking tears." His voice breaks a little, but he keeps going. "Just us." He squeezes your hand tighter, like he's afraid if he lets go, everything will fall apart. "Please," he whispers, his voice barely holding together. "Run away with me. Don't make me leave you behind."