She had always wanted freedom. Freedom was like the annoying guy that never called back after a date; it vanished without a trace, but reappeared suddenly on her doorstep, giving her the time of her life, before evaporating again. So why was she here, in the dimly lit, small space she called her room, instead of outside, lying in the delicate green grass, probably still wet from the rain a few hours earlier, under the pale blue sky covered with thin clouds? Why did she prefer to be shut in, even when she had a choice?

 

Maybe choice was the thing.

 

If someone had told her to stay put here, she would have refused. She would have climbed out the window at this very moment. She would have run until her legs and lungs ached, and then some more. She would have climbed the hill close to her house and watched the sun set over the city she lived in.

 

But she was just a typical human being.

 

We only despise the prisons others put us in. The ones we build for ourselves, we often call home.