RUN TO HIDE

THYME'S POV (Age 23, Year 2030)

I stare at the shaking of my own hands, watching the ghost of a fear that never truly left.

All those people… their expectant eyes. I let their expectations pile up, weighing like wet concrete on my chest. I couldn't say "no." I just couldn't. I told myself I was keeping them from hurting.

But silence is not kindness. It's cowardice. It lets hope go bad. It lets it rot. And when the structure finally gave way, taking everything with it… what they did. What I let happen.

Running away doesn't end the tragedy. It just carries the rot with you to the next destination. I learned the hard way that kindness is holy, but I never knew it could be so heavy. Or how sharp.

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THYME'S POV (Age 18)

Everyone has fears. It's easy to say you can conquer them, but harder to actually stand your ground. My fear resides as a physical weight sitting low in my gut. Rejection is a razor's edge I refuse to look at. The moment the word "no" threatens to leave my mouth, my fingers curl into defensive fists.

It’s a reflex rooted in the silence of my own house. I remember standing in the doorway of my father's study at ten years old, clutching a gold-painted culinary trophy so tightly my knuckles ached. I waited for him to look up from his ledgers. He didn't.

"Leave it on the table, Thyme. Close the door on your way out."

He never even shifted his gaze. I learned then that acceptance was conditional, and my presence was an interruption. I only became fully part of their house because my grandmother passed away. If she hadn't, I'd still be an outsider gazing in.

Because of this, I chased straight A’s, ran clubs, and held every position until sleep was optional. Even now, when stress hits, I catch myself straightening every object in sight. I did it all with the hope that maybe with one success, my parents would at last see my worth.

And then something changed last year. A page missing, torn from my mind. There’s a hole in my memory, something heavy tied to the rejection I fear most. I can sense it. Before the accident, I told my parents something that pushed them away again. My sister shuts down whenever I ask. All she ever says is, “You’re better off not remembering. You won’t look at them the same.”

That sharp pain carved me too deeply. Ever since, refusing people has felt impossible. If someone needs something, I give it. Always. That's why things got complicated three months ago, when I took my university interview. A person snapped a candid photo and posted it to a campus public forum.

The post didn't go viral, but it breached the walls I’d spent years building. Suddenly, my anonymity was gone. I became public property. It wasn't about admiration; it was about consumption. Complete strangers began cornering me outside lecture halls, crowding my physical space, projecting their own noise onto someone who just wanted to stay quiet.

Let me make this clear: I’ve already accepted that love isn’t in the cards for me. I pull back whenever someone gets too close, emotionally or physically, because rejection terrifies me. I can’t risk opening up only to be abandoned all over again.

But I’ve never actually rejected them. I just mutter, “I need to think,” as I stare at my shoes. It’s pathetic. I rely on polite deflections to keep the peace. I can’t handle the conflict or the disappointment I’d see in their eyes, so I smile, I apologize, and I run.

“Thyme, stop staring at your plate like it’s about to reveal the lottery numbers.” Dom’s voice boomed through the university canteen, snapping me out of my thoughts. Lance snorted beside him, halfway through his Pad See Ew. We sat at our usual corner table, the only bit of sanity in the lunchtime chaos.

“Just thinking,” I muttered, pushing perfectly good rice around my plate. Even my favorite basil chicken tasted like nothing. The knot in my stomach killed every bit of flavor. My mind kept reeling back through the never-ending waiting faces, my own paralyzing fear.

"Thinking about what? Another one of your stalkers?" Lance joked, nudging my arm with a solid but playful bump that nearly caused me to drop my fork.

"Talking of which," Dom inched forward in a confidential manner, his eyes taking that quick, skimming survey of the packed room that he always does, as though he's charting out battle positions. "Isn't that Prasert over by the engineering tables? He appears to be looking for you, Thyme."

The damp, heavy smell of the canteen’s fryers suddenly felt suffocating.

"Sorry guys, help me hide," I said, keeping my voice low. Lance shifted his chair, casually using his broader frame to block the sightline.

"Go, go," Dom whispered. I grabbed my bag, stayed low, and scurried toward the back exit just as I heard Prasert's nasal voice nearing our table.

"Where's Thyme? Isn't he with you guys?"

My throat locked. A bitter, metallic taste flooded the back of my tongue. Prasert Wongsuwan. He was the most infuriating of the lot, a perpetual pest ever since high school who simply refused to read a room.

"Ah… Thyme went to the bathroom," Dom lied smoothly.

I slipped through the double doors into the main academic hall. The air conditioning hit my sweat-slicked neck. I kept my head down, calculating the fastest route to the stairwell. Just keep walking. Invisible.

I didn't make it.

"Thyme! Hey, wait up!"

Prasert cut across the polished linoleum, deliberately inserting himself between me and the heavy fire doors of the stairwell. He held a small, unnecessarily expensive-looking velvet box in his hands.

The animal instinct to bolt warred with years of conditioned compliance. Running now would cause a scene. A scene meant eyes. Eyes meant judgment and rejection.

I forced the muscles in my face to soften. I pulled up my most apologetic, appreciative smile. The mask slid perfectly into place.

"Oh, hey Prasert," I said, modulating my voice to sound polite but urgently rushed. "I'm so sorry, I'm actually running late for a lab session right now."

"I just need a minute," he insisted. He stepped directly into my personal space. The scent of his heavy cologne invaded my lungs, masking the sterile smell of the hallway. "I know you said you needed time to think about us, but I brought you this. Just to show you I'm serious."

Us. There was no us. But correcting him meant conflict. It meant watching his face fall.

"That’s incredibly generous of you, Prasert, but I really can't accept gifts right now," I said. I kept the smile pinned to my face, taking a slow, calculated step to the side to bypass him. "I promise we can talk later, but I have to go."

He shifted, mirroring my movement to block me again. The entitlement in his posture hardened. His hand shot out and clamped firmly around my wrist.

"You always do this. You always brush me off. Just take it."

The moment his fingers locked around my skin, the polite mask shattered.

The solid floor beneath my shoes felt like it was dropping away. My chest constricted so violently I couldn't pull air into my lungs. He wasn't listening to my "no," even veiled in kindness. He wasn't giving me a choice. He was taking control.

"Let go," I choked out, the smile completely gone.

I wrenched my arm backward with enough frantic force that his grip broke. The velvet box tumbled from his hands, clattering sharply against the linoleum. I didn't wait to see his reaction. I slammed my shoulder into the heavy fire door, broke through to the stairwell, and sprinted upward.

My legs burned, my lungs ready to collapse, but the adrenaline carried me. Every footstep echoed off the concrete walls. Don't turn back. My palms were slick with sweat.

I bypassed the crowded lower floors, pushing myself until I hit the sixth-floor landing.

"Please be open," I wheezed, throwing my weight against the heavy metal bar of the roof access door. It gave way with a screech of rusted hinges.

The cool rooftop wind hit my sweaty skin like a physical blow. I slammed the door shut behind me, leaning my full weight against the hot metal. I stood there, drawing in ragged, painful lungfuls of air until my shoulders finally lowered from their tight knot. For a moment, there was just the distant hum of city traffic and the open sky. Actual peace.

I sank to the concrete floor, pulling my knees tight to my chest. My gaze dropped to my scuffed black school shoes. The scuff marks blurred, and suddenly the smell of exhaust fading in the wind was replaced by the ghost-scent of pandan and sunshine.

I was seven again. Grandma fastening my shiny buckle shoes. “We’re seeing your mom for her birthday,” she had said, her voice soft and warm.

But after the shoes... just the dark. I remember leaning against Grandma’s shoulder, the night cold around us. I wasn’t crying, but she was. The moonlight caught the tears on her face as she carried me, her frame shaking with soft, broken sobs.

The party itself is a complete void. I can’t remember my mother’s face, her house, or even eating cake. Just a dark, empty hole between shiny shoes and my grandmother's tears. I learned early on not to ask about the things my mind refused to let me see.

Sitting on the rooftop, I wrap my arms tighter around my legs, burying my face in my knees. I thought climbing six flights of stairs would elevate me above it all. But out here, staring at the scuffs on my shoes, the silence is just another cage.