#anaeretics

So maybe you avoiding him is what you'd both prefer. 

But maybe just going would be better. 

You don't have much to your name besides the bag over your shoulder and the clothes on your back. You find it too easy to pick yourself up and slip out of the door, looking around cautiously to make sure you won't be in anyone's eyesight before heading for the door out of here. You meant it when you said you didn't want to owe him anything, and you'd said one night. Your welcome was worn. 

Maybe you'd explain this to him. Maybe you wouldn't.

Material things don't really hold much appeal to you anymore. You gather them in necessity, but you find no use for them in daily life. They don't distract you from the realities you live within. The items you've collected fit within a box or two, mostly clothes at this point. Other items you've already sent away, hidden inside a storage unit that remains the only real constant in your life. 

You sigh, run your fingers through your hair, and begin setting up the device again, not much caring who might walk through the hallway and misunderstand. When you're done, you send the boxes to join the worn down couch and other shabby pieces. Transportilizer. Messenger bag slung over one shoulder, strap gripped by a gloved hand. Shades on, phone tucked away into your pocket. This is you, broken down into your components. Just in case you forgot how portable you are. Just in case disposability wasn't written in your every feature, etched like fading bruises into your skin. 

Once it's you and the device in the hallway, you put your trembling fingers to other use and punch in numbers that, if you had not had a concussion the first time you'd seen them, would have been familiar to you. 

Of course, it only occurs to you when you arrive. 

whatever you say.

[Private.] nevermind.

[Private.] i had a nigh panic attack because of it.

i minded seeing you hurt.

i know i dont i just. dont mind it.