RUN TO HIDE
THYME'S POV (Age 18):
Everyone has fears. It's easy to say you can conquer them, harder to actually do it. My fears reside as a cold knot in the bottom of my stomach, and with a natural instinct, I'll avoid anything that will even have a chance at bringing that on. Rejection is the hardest edge, one I barely can stand to look at. Even saying the word makes my fingers tighten.
Yes, I'm scared of being rejected. Scared of it on a deep and fundamental level that goes all the way back to when my own parents rejected me... they didn't want me in their presence, didn't want me to stay. 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.
I spent my childhood with literally dozens of tiny paper scratches of feeling disapproved of, rejected, disregarded in my own house. Because of this, I pushed myself mercilessly – neatest handwriting, neatest notes, always the first to get my hand up. I got straight A's, was class president, led clubs till I barely slept. Even now, when I'm stressed, I can catch myself compulsively straightening everything on every available surface in my world. 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. I don't know what I lost, but I have this heavy, irremovable feeling that the missing piece is something about the rejection I fear most. I don't know what, but I can sense it—prior to the accident, I told my parents something, something that caused them to turn away again. My sister won't discuss it with me, her voice always hardening and evasive. All she will tell him, with her back turned, is, "It's better that you don't remember it, because you might not be able to see your parents the way you do now."
Since I've had that sharp pain myself, I've never said no to anyone. 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 photo, posted it to the 'Uni Cute Boys Page.' It got only 487 likes, not wacko at all, but somehow I ended up with nearly seventy crushes. And the cherry on top? Ninety percent of them were dudes – gay, bi, pan, omni, curious-straight, you name them. Only ten percent were girls.
It would have been fine if it was just casual observation, maybe one percent of the students taking a passing interest in me. I tried to close my eyes to them. But these 68 people treat me like… well, like zealots. Flowers are left in my dorm. Chocolates, snacks. Some try to speak with me, to actually woo me, face to face.
I want to make one thing absolutely clear: I am not gay. I don't find guys attractive. I don't find anyone attractive. I've already accepted that I'm going to have to give up on love. I find myself automatically backing away when people get too close, physically or emotionally. I have to give it up because I'm scared of being rejected. Twice is enough. I can't risk putting my feelings out there only to be rejected or just… left behind all over again.
So, I've never actually told them no. The only thing I can do is mutter a, "I need to think," usually while blankly staring at my shoes. How long can that possibly be? Two weeks is how long it has been since they started. There have been times that I've literally ducked behind pillars or sprint down side hallways just to escape talking, because the possibility of having disappointment or pain on their faces makes mine lock up unbearably. I simply can't say no to them.
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"Thyme, stop staring at your plate as if it's going to inform you about the next lottery draw." Dom's loud voice echoed as always, shattering my line of thought and jerking me back to the noisy university canteen. Lance emitted a muffled chuckle beside him, his mouth open as he devoured half of his Pad See Ew (Thai Stir Fried Noodles) already. We occupied our corner table, a small haven of sanity in the midst of lunchtime bedlam.
"Just thinking," I grumbled, pushing a perfectly good forkful of rice around my plate. Even my beloved chicken stir-fry with basil seemed like cardboard; the knot in my stomach was draining all flavor. My mind kept reeling back through the never-ending waiting faces, my own paralyzing fear.
"Thinking about what? Another of your secret admirers?" 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 one of them one of the guys over by the Engineering table? Why are Engineering students in the Science faculty canteen, anyway?" His eyes focused on someone in the distance. "Yes, that's him for sure. He appears to be looking for you, Thyme."
Shit. My blood ran cold. Run. Now. "Sorry guys, help me hide!" The reaction was instant. Lance, the action hero, gave a grubby shove that half-herded me under the table. "Thyme, crawl to the other exit – go, go!" Dom whispered, already turning his body to discreetly cover the sight. I scurried low behind him.
"Thanks boys, later!" I was around half way across the room when I heard a voice, familiar to me and standing out above the noise of the canteen, talking to Dom and Lance.
"Where's Thyme? Isn't he with you guys?" My blood ran cold. Shit! That very, slightly nasal voice – Prasert Wongsuwan. I didn't need to turn my head. He's the most infuriating of the lot, a perpetual pest ever since high school, when he had been the president of my old band's fan club.
"Eh… ah… Thyme went to the bathroom," Dom said to me, his voice wavering slightly. I was running out of ideas; hiding under table legs wouldn't do anymore. I scrambled up and for the door. Prasert hadn't noticed me yet, which was fortunate. I was almost there—
"Wait, don't you see that as Thyme?"
That's what I heard last before I flew. As fast as I could. I had a place to hide. The library? Too open. The labs? Too busy. The rooftop. Off-limits. Perfect.
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My legs burned, lungs screaming for air, but adrenaline took over, carrying me on. The pounding of my sneakers echoed in the hallway, mixed with the pounding in my head. A little further, Thyme. Don't turn back. My palms were sweaty. Don't turn around. I yanked the canteen doors open and sprinted into the main hall. Simple plan: elevators, not too many floors up, roof stairways. The layout of the building was imprinted in my memory, a map drawn by repetition practice escapes.
Taking the corner to the main bank of elevators, my heart sank. My gut tightened. There they were. A small cluster of them, loitering around the elevator doors, trying to look casual as they waited. But their eyes, wide and searching, gave them away. They were waiting for me.
Stupid! Of course, they'd stake out the elevators. Blindingly obvious path.
I stiffened in an instant, pinning myself against the cold of the wall plaster, trying to shrink, hoping the procession of cheerful students wouldn't disperse enough for them to notice me. My breath hitched. Right, Thyme, plan change. Elevators are out. Stuck. Stuck for sure.
I took a risk and peeked. One of them, a tall guy with bright red-dyed hair, had a small, pitiful-looking bouquet in his hand. Seriously? Flowers in front of the elevator? What is this, a rom-com?
Right, stairs it is. Painful, required. I swore under my breath whoever's algorithm placed my face on that page, swore at the needy desperation of these people. Why couldn't they just listen? Every careful evasion, every grunted "I need time," just seemed to get them more riled up. It was like speaking a foreign language.
Taking a deep breath, I discreetly changed direction, heading towards the more unpopulated stairwell at the far end of the hallway. Longer walk, arduous climb, but maybe incognito. I kept my head down and walked, playing the role as if I was intensely engrossed in my phone, though my fingers were really tapping out a desperate, silent rhythm against the smooth glass screen. My palms were sweaty.
Just keep going, Thyme. Invisible.
My chest tightened with each step, not from exercising, but from the constant, gnawing fear. Would I ever be free to walk across campus without being chased? The rooftop was a temporary truce, but in my heart of hearts, I knew this wasn't sustainable.
"Just a little farther," I gasped, searing lungs. Six floors. I was completely exhausted, way out of shape.
"Yes, blessed! The roof door is open!" I pushed through immediately. Deserted. Perfect. I could idle the next two hours on top of this building.
The cool air on the roof hit my sweaty skin like a blessing, a welcome relief from the stuffy stairwell and the suffocating weight below. I slumped back on the cold, cracked concrete parapet, closed my eyes, and took a long, shaking breath that finally made it to the bottom of my lungs, letting my shoulders drop from their knotted position up around my ears. For a moment, just the calm of the city hum and the open, empty sky. Finally, serenity.
I prayed that no one would ever be able to find me. My body rebelled with exhaustion; another pursuit would surely drive me over the edge. Fainting was not on the agenda. But here, out of sight, I could finally take a deep breath. For now, safe. I had to be.
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2030'S THYME'S POV (Age 23):
All those people… their expectant eyes… I let their expectation pile up, weighing like rocks on my chest, a weight that occasionally I bear in mind when I think about it too much. Couldn't say "no." Just couldn't. Felt that I was keeping them from hurting. That's what I told myself.
But silence is not kindness. It's fear. It lets hope go bad. Rot. And when it finally did fall down… what they did… what I let happen…
This running away? Hiding? This does not end it. Just takes the rot with you. The truth hurts, but you need to accept it. Stand firm. Let it cut deep. Even if it kills you.
I learned that kindness was holy. Never knew it could be so heavy. Or how sharp.
