The bike was a sort of portable sanctuary for her, as strange as that sounded. She could bike for miles without thinking a single thing, so focused she’d be on the allure of sunlight filtering through lacy leaves, the tentative beauty of petals raining down onto the well-worn paths, the rush of sound and wind and color on the tightrope of death and life. She liked to go fast, leaving her thoughts behind, leaving [the boy] behind before he could leave her looking at his backside, leaving her inadequacies and insecurities far behind and fixing her eyes on what lay ahead until she returned home, tired. She’d climb onto her mattress, nothing but red heat and sticky sweat before she washed up and waited at her desk for her thoughts to catch up with her so she could feel again that subtle persistence of being out of place.

A response to the daily prompt as well as an excerpt from a short novella-type-of-thing I had been working on.


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