Running away. Nowhere to go. My father's wallet was heavy in my pocket, filling me with guilt with every lurch or judder of the bus.

I kept my mind focused on Google Maps, eyes glued to the bright light of my phone screen, a beacon in the dimly-lit bus.

After a while, I turned my phone off, clutching it in my hand desperately. I couldn't let myself think of the good times.

I had been abused for years. Running away was my only option, but I couldn't help the feeling that I had betrayed my father by leaving him.

I forced myself to lock away the good times. I would never truly forget them; I knew that. But I could pretend. Pretend I was never there, pretend my life had never been like that. I could build a new life, be happy again.

I flipped my phone over in my hands, pressing the home button. 23:57. No new messages.

I fought back the sudden surge of sadness that threatened to drown me. He hadn't even noticed that I was gone. He didn't care.

Never had.

I shoved my phone into my pocket roughly, hugging my rucksack to my chest. It was filled with my clothes—old and small, but the only ones I had—and bread rolls. Easy to fit, small to pack, filling and long lasting. It was all I needed.

Despite having nowhere to go, there was a small spark of hope somewhere in my chest. Things would be better. I could get a job, find a cheap inn somewhere, make friends. I could finally live my life how I wanted to live it. Be a teenager. Go to parties. Skip curfew.

I knew I could never forget about everything that had happened to me—no, that would always be part of who I am. But I could move forward, push past the fog of my past and become someone I wanted to be. I could become the girl I had always wanted to become.

I could be myself, finally.

I knew this was not the end. The end of one chapter in my life, maybe, but at the end of every chapter, a new one begins.

The beginning of the new me.