i feel it. the pressure in my thighs, the ache in my bones. there's a breathless kind of feeling in my chest. i cant escape the need to run, and in my mind, i do run, because the way the ground shakes during an earthquake is similar to the way it does when a bomb explodes, it leaves you looking at the water bottle next to you, leaves you hearing your own heart more than your mother snoring beside you. it's in the middle of the night, and you're safe and sound in a different city. but you feel the bed and walls shaking, and you see flames in your head. you see your phone light up with messages asking you if you're alright, and if you felt it—the earth quaking under the tiles of your new home. you regret the relief that floods into you, the one that came after the realisation that you weren't feeling the aftershocks of missiles hitting the ground. it makes you feel sick, that you're glad for earthquakes, as if it doesn't make gingerbread houses out of the homes hopeful lovers built for their lovely kids. but you can't help it. you'll always be that twelve year old who left someone behind in a city that you didn't know was about to burn down. in your head, you run. this time, with someone's hand holding your own.
