...Six months later.

I lie in the grass with my eyes closed, my face to the sun, as warmth slowly seeps its way through my body. The river ripples, flowing beside me. The sound of the water rushing by quiets my mind, giving me some peace. I can't take the thoughts and memories of my family, of Travis, that consume me anymore. I find myself here more and more, desperate for the reprieve.

I have to remind myself every day why I did this, why I ran. It's become nearly impossible to remember. The loneliness, the fear, the sadness, they push me further and further away. I'm ready to give up most days, but then I remember what I would be running back to, a life where I will miss the people I love as terribly as I do now. At least this way there's some hope, something to keep me moving forward.

It's been 183 days since I left home. It feels like a lifetime ago. I got incredibly lucky that night, hopping on a train that was just leaving the city. I sat in the front of the freight car in a daze, watching the city shrink as it moved farther and farther away. I'm not sure how long it was before I jumped off the train, at least a few hours. I saw a grouping of homes in the distance and figured it was my best bet, the best place to get off and figure out my plan.

I walked as much as I could in those first few days while I had plenty of food and water to sustain myself, waking up and following the sunrise. My joints hurt, my feet blistered, my entire body was sore, but I kept pushing, trying to put as much distance between myself and my old life as possible. I collected things from abandoned homes as I went and was lucky enough to find water jugs and canned food in a few houses along the way. It's become sort of a hobby, searching the deserted homes for things that could be of use to me. It's mind-blowing how much people have left behind.

After the first couple of weeks, I slowed down tremendously. I was already so lonely, even that early on. I hadn't realized how scary it would be, being on my own with no one to turn to. If something happened to me, no one would ever know, and that was terrifying. It still is. That fear is what kept me barely moving a town over every few days, finding myself just wanting to hide inside the homes that I occupied. Eventually, I realized if I didn't get moving I'd never find what I was looking for, and that gave me the kick I needed.

The first time I came across another person, I thought I would die of a heart attack. I was passing through a small town, walking through a neighborhood, when I saw a woman walking out of a home. I stopped dead in my tracks and barely contained the scream that threatened to escape my lips. She put up her hands as if in surrender and told me that everything was okay, that she wouldn't harm me, that there was nothing to be afraid of. In what could have been a very stupid move, I followed her into her home when she invited me in.

It turned out to be the best night I've had since I left home. The woman, her husband, and son had been staying there for years, living off the grid. They cooked a delicious meal of chicken and potatoes for dinner that I scarfed down like a starved animal. We played card games and kept the conversation light. It helped keep my mind off of the many things that continuously plague me.

While I was grateful for their generosity, I was careful not to divulge much information about myself. I didn't feel comfortable telling them who I was, or what I was, and where I was headed.

I slept on their couch that night, and in the morning they sent me off with a gallon jug of water, half a loaf of bread, some homemade peanut butter, and well wishes. I've seen a few people since, but they were nowhere near as friendly, regarding me with suspicion or just simply ignoring me. I made it a point to move through those towns quickly, but the more people I came across, the more hope it gave me. If there were really people living outside of Los Angeles, then the reality of a free nation was that much more tangible.

There have been many days I had to eat things I never imagined I would, from flowers and weeds to insects and all kinds of reptiles and animals. If I've heard of someone eating it and I come across it, I'm going to try it. In most cases, it's absolutely disgusting, but I don't really have a choice. It's that or starve.

I've been fortunate enough to find quite a bit of water in the homes I've come across. Other times I got it from water hoses that were still working or collected rainwater in buckets. I've hauled buckets of water for miles. Needless to say, some days I didn't travel very far, some days not at all.

The hardest weeks were the ones I spent walking across stretches of desert. Those were the days I walked the most, trying to reach the next town as fast as I could. Walking in the middle of nowhere in the bright open space left me feeling too vulnerable, so I immediately changed my plan, walking at night instead and sleeping during the day. It was easier to walk in the colder night air than it was to try and sleep in it anyway. I kept close to roads and highways, not wanting to get lost and end up stranded.

Thank God for paying attention in school. I remember learning about the Navajo, Apache, and Mohave Native Americans and how they lived off of the land. Specifically these tribes, because I knew I was somewhere in the middle of the Arizona desert.

Cactus doesn't provide as much water as I've been led to believe and the few times I tried it, it made me sick to my stomach. I had traded out the majority of my belongings in my backpack for two big jugs of water and a few cans of green beans, and it turned out to be a lifesaving decision. When I couldn't find my own food or water I took a small portion of what I had, just enough to get me by and keep me going. I'd become accustomed to the constant hunger clawing at me by that point anyway. I never ate too much for fear of having nothing later on.

The river I'm at now is the Rio Grande in Albuquerque, New Mexico. I know this because of the many signs that still litter this city. I've been here quite a while, almost two months now. I haven't found it in me to continue on, having no idea where to go next, and I'm afraid to keep going, because I know I've been lucky, and it feels like only a matter of time before my luck runs out. Here, there's plenty of food and water, an amazing little house just a few hundred feet away from the river for me to stay, and the view is breathtaking.

I realize it's foolish of me to stay in one place for so long. I can probably be found much easier this way, but maybe that's what I'm secretly hoping for.

Sitting up, I open my eyes. So much for keeping the thoughts at bay. I look around and am reminded again of how beautiful it is here. The clear blue skies are streaked with white clouds, and the ground is covered in green plants and trees that stretch out as far as I can see, the river flowing through it all. The sounds of water and birds surround me. There's something incredible about living here, in the middle of this beautiful place.

The fishing line beside me pulls tight, and I quickly reach for the rod, pulling it up and reeling in my catch. It's another small fish, but it's the third I've caught today, which should be plenty along with the wolfberries I picked earlier. I unhook the fish and throw him in the bucket with the others. Standing up, I gather my things then start to make my way back to the house.

I walk through the back door into the kitchen and set the bucket of fish down on the counter. Straight ahead of me is the living room and to the right, inside that room, is my favorite thing about this entire place...the huge bookshelf. It's filled from top to bottom with books. I've sat in front of it for hours deciding what book to read next.

Ironically enough, I found a "Survival Guide for the Desert" book I've been using to learn about the area, discovering all kinds of new food I would never have known about.

I find myself drawn to the romance books, though. They're like nothing I've ever read before. I get lost in the stories each and every time, imagining they're about Travis and me, ending up happily ever after. The love and passion the characters feel for each other intrigues me. I want to know what that feels like, to have those feelings reciprocated, and reading these stories is the closest I've ever come to it.

After I've boiled the water and cooked the fish I brought in today, I settle into the rocking chair on the back porch and eat quietly. It's in these moments that I feel the loneliest. I miss the company, someone to talk to. I miss my family, the smiles and laughter we'd share at the dinner table. I wonder for the millionth time how they're doing, how they feel about me being gone, if they know why I left. Hopefully, it wasn't too hard on them, but I can't help but picture the looks on their faces when they realized what I'd done. Maybe now that some time has passed it's not so hard on them. Probably not, but I can only wish that for my parents.

My plate clanks in the sink as I toss it in and turn around, leaving the kitchen. I head to the back of the house for the bedroom and cover the windows with sheets, lighting the candles that are placed around the room.

I change into a large shirt, the only one I ever sleep in—Travis's old track shirt that I snuck in with the rest of my stuff the night I packed to leave. The smell of him is long gone now, but wearing it still brings me comfort.

Slipping beneath the covers of the bed, I settle into a comfortable position and reach for the book on the nightstand, opening it up to where I left off. Twenty minutes later, I find myself reading the same page over and over again. It's no use trying anymore, so I throw it back onto the nightstand.

Thoughts of Travis have flooded my mind. When I'm in bed late at night, there's no escape from the memories of him that haunt me. I can see his green eyes boring into mine, can almost feel the light stubble that lines his sharp features. The dimple that shows when he smiles or laughs; the scowl on his face when he's deep in thought; the biting of his lip that I've dreamt about kissing; his muscular, tattooed arms; the tattoo of a large bird that spans across his ribs and tight stomach, one of the wings dipping down and hiding beneath the waistline of his pants...all of these things that make up Travis are ingrained in me. I'll never be able to forget them.

How could I not have known how deeply in love I was with him?

I still am.

Like a song on repeat, the memories of him play on and on until I finally fall asleep. My last thought before drifting off...Please come find me.