I NEVER REALLY OPENED MY EYES until I was fourteen.

It was as if finding myself in the beach for the very first time, seeing the vast waterbed that extends to God knows where, feeling the sand flooding the slits between my toes. Realising that the world was so much more than my minimalistic view of it was sort of, depressing. It was disheartening to know that life was much more complex than the sweet ingredients of Mother’s homemade cookies—which I absolutely loved and would try again if given the chance—or the feeling of triumph every time I successfully pile the cards into a similar structure as that of a house.

The epiphany was not the turning point though, but the moment I scribbled my signature on the court papers, stacked as if bearing the weight of this realisation. I have seen it coming anyway, so there was never a reason to be surprised. The separation of my parents was like a looming cloud, always waiting to rain down on me until it finally did. It first occurred to me that something was wrong with this family when Mother would bake cookies while telling me in advance that I could not eat them as they were for some special occasion (of course, I did sneak some and never told her anything). I was a bit confused back then as to why those special cookies needed to be wrapped around in fancy boxes and red ribbons, but I never said a thing. I knew myself to be an expert in not expressing how I truly feel, and so I let Mother do whatever she desired to. Never did I tell her that I wanted to eat the cookies, just like I never actually told her that I was devastated when she left.

Honestly, I couldn’t blame any of them for the separation; perhaps they were just too unhappy living together under the same roof to neglect how I’d feel when they decided to go on separate ways. So instead of ing about it, I kept my mouth mum. It was Mother who had an affair with one of her colleagues anyway, not Father—and it was quite unusual of her. She did not look like she’d do such act in the first place. All my life I’m being reminded of the stereotypical tendency that claims married men have greater chances of having affairs than their female counterparts, but that is a stereotype for a reason, since marriage is not as stable as it looks like. Seeing the guy that she cheated Father with was like a nightmare for me; he was a personification of everything that I lacked, a breathing representation of her choice in dumping both of us. It could have been honestly worst for Father; I could only imagine how he felt seeing said affair guy.

Luckily enough, the court granted Father my custody. Perhaps they sensed that I was too uncomfortable seeing Mother and her boyfriend back then, and honestly, I’d consider uncomfortable as an understatement. The two then tied the knot and immigrated to England shortly after her marriage with Father was invalidated. And no, I don’t want to live with them and see the guy every day for the rest of my life, but if told so, I will reluctantly abide. So it was such a relief when Father took me back into our familiar house. Surprisingly though, I moved on pretty quick from the divorce and carried with my own life. Sure, it was miserable for the first few weeks but after that, everything pieced itself back together. Nothing really changed other than Mother’s physical absence, which did not even make that much of a difference. She was detached from our home even before the separation anyway.

The problem though was with Father and his severe attachment to a person that was already long gone. At night when the walls are still and the house falls into silence, his woes would echo from his bedroom, disrupting the tranquillity with his drunken begs and desperate cries. Hearing how each night he would weep and call for her, it grew to become a routine for me—for the both of us, even though I doubt that he actually knows that it affects my sleeping pattern. It was tolerable during summer vacations, but was so much of a nuisance when school season comes around and I’m cramming almost all of my exams. Sleep-talking would be the excuse the morning after, each and every time I ask him about what I heard last night. He also promises that he would tone his sleep-talking down, but never actually did. On a real note though, he could have just told me that he hasn’t moved on yet. I would have understood him, told him that it’s fine. People have varying lengths of getting over someone, some quickly that it seems as if they never truly cared—myself, as an example—and some would still cry even after years. But no, he never said anything other than coating his cries with his supposed sleep-talking. I have known Father as an honest and kind man, but it seemed that the honesty faded along with Mother’s presence in the house. He would simply deny it when I give him a doubtful look, as if crying made him less of a man, as if it took a chunk of his masculinity away, as if the deed invalidated him as my Father.

Nevertheless, we became distant from each other as the years stretched by. Though I wished I could have done something to at least alleviate his emotions, but I couldn’t even do that when I feel empty too.

-

It was at the autumn break of my senior year when I decided I needed a breath of fresh air—preferably somewhere far, far away.

It was more than of a eureka than an epiphany, although an obvious one for that matter; if you’re unsatisfied with how things in life turned out then change it according to your own will. Trust me, the mundane of going living in this city and hanging out with friends gets boring, really boring. Boredom wasn’t the problem though, it’s just me realising that every once in a while, I would need an exploration somewhere that is miles away from this greyscale of a city, and this house is a hole anyway so I figured out that there’s really nothing much to lose.

I have this never-ending thirst for discovering the undiscovered. I have always found solace in the presence of the unknown that lies beyond what I can see, and that itching wanderlust grew over me throughout the years, until I’ve had enough to awaken the reckless teenager inside of me.

And that recklessness then fathomed that running away from home wasn’t the best thing to do if you’re an underage, broke teenager. You could be denounced, detained, killed, or worse, jailed. But where is the fun part in keeping yourself within the constricts of security anyway?

Father’s car, old and worn-out as it always was—looked endurable enough for a long road trip, I suppose. It was the first car that I’ve ever drove by myself anyway—thanks to Father being my instructor in that case, and so I’ve worked out that the familiarity of the Picanto will decrease the risk of me causing a car accident along the way. Sure, I am completely tangling myself into a whole new level of trouble by stealing the keys from him out of impulse, but adolescence really did took its toll on me; it made me do things that would totally jeopardise myself, but simultaneously, taught me the art of not giving a single .

It only took me around an hour to finish packing the things I needed. It took even longer to take Father’s keys from his bedroom when he would stay up until half past three drinking his sadness away. Good thing it has that really shiny car locator attached along that would glow within the darkness of the room, it made the keys easier to find.

I made as little noise as possible whilst packing everything that were essential—instant food, thick clothes, a copy of Le Guin’s The Wind’s Twelve Quarters, and inarguably the most vital object for my survival, my Nintendo switch. Father gifted it to me during my thirteenth, though I initially asked for an Xbox, but I suppose we can’t have all the nice things in the world, can we?

I didn’t bother taking my phone. Father's quite the expert in modern technology may I say, as gadgets and the shenanigans related concerned with his work field. If that’s the case, then the guy wouldn’t have a problem in tracking me down. I do not want him to trace me anyway, at least not after the fulfilment of my main objective for this road trip, which is still unknown but I’ll sure find that out later.

The feeling of guilt came after successfully outsmarting Father; that is before I could even leave the doorstep. I tried to ignore the calling of my conscience but all efforts went swirling down the drain. God, I swear this is what’s most annoying, but I needed to at least leave him with something that will serve as a reassurance that his daughter’s just as fine as his Picanto.

Dad,

First of all, I need you to stay calm. And please stop panicking if you already are.

I’m terribly sorry that I couldn’t join you at breakfast this morning. I ran away and took your keys. I know, I know. That’s very ty rude of me, and I am sorry. Perhaps you should change your car locator the next time around, one that isn’t as shiny as this one. It makes it a ton easier to find.

Also, please don’t call the cops on me. I’ll definitely come back, and maybe then you could scold me for my recklessness. But please, no cops.

By the way, I prepared you some cereal in the fridge as an offer of apology.

Love,
Minjoo xoxo

I nodded as I attached the piece of paper on the fridge's door. It wasn’t that bad of a letter, I could only hope he would not faint the moment he sees it.

-

The thrill of running away came in the form of a flash flood, rushing through my veins as I pass by the awakening highways of the city. This whole thing feels like a first-hand experience of what Plato’s man went through after leaving the cave, or when Neo detached himself from the Matrix, not knowing what lies beyond but certain that there is so much ahead than their repetitive routines.

I drove carefully, passing by a patrolling police car across the opposite lane in the process. If they were a little too tight then I am doomed to be detained for underage driving, but since they luckily weren't, I would not have to worry that much; unless they stopped right in front of me and requested to see my licence—speaking of which, I left at home. It was Father’s anyway and not mine to meddle with. Sure, it does surprise me how I considered meddling with his licence as a graveyard sin but not the stealing of his car, but taking the licence with me will make no use other than entangling him in the mess—if I ever get caught by the cops, that is.

I drove for several miles more. According to my baseless calculations, I could reach the countryside by eight o’clock this morning, that’s without the interruptions of heavy traffic and police frontiers. I’m not entirely familiar with the twists and turns though, and I only have an old rugged map to make use of—and so, at this point I am almost half a whole percent certain that I will lose myself in the following hours.

-

Scratch that percentage, I am completely, certainly lost.

The thrill was long gone by now. If only I have known that I’ll lose the feeling just as swift as I experienced it, then I should have kept it for later use, though I doubt that it would make it last longer.

Daylight came and I’m still nowhere near the countryside. It’ll surely be easier to reach it by taking the expressways but I could not risk myself in getting detained by the cops, and so I have to find my way around just through these shortcuts, assisted by a map that wasn’t even up to date. There were roads that are seemingly operating based on this map but actually closed since way back the 70’s.

The middle noon finds me having a break inside this convenience store, a few kilometres away from the city proper. The wind was chilly outside even with seemingly clear skies, and what could be more comforting than a cup of sizzling hot, spicy seafood ramen. Luckily, there’s also a gasoline station just by across the road so I wouldn’t have to worry about running out of gas in the middle of nowhere.

As for the convenience store, well it was quite—should I say, convenient, truly living up to its name. Not only do they have a mini-grocery, but also served lots of grub, ranging from ramen to rice cakes to pastries. It was quite odd mixing pastries with noodles inside a room but they sure did and honestly, it wasn’t that bad as I thought it would be. Plus, they cook the best ramen that I’ve tasted in my life so far and I got to give them extra credits for that.

I settled on the table by the window—cliché as it sounds but there’s something really enjoyable about it. The road seemed narrow in comparison to the gigantic ones they have back in the proper, but it stretched like a never-ending pathway that I could only see a limited view of what lies beyond.

Father always taught me to keep notice of what was after me, especially in driving. He may have focused more on the practical points such as making successful U-turns—which I never actually perfected but who cares—and how to properly press your foot on the breaks so I won’t be tossing myself forward every time I try to stop the momentum. Frankly, I had a hard time with the breaking, and it’s definitely not my fault when Father’s Picanto was one-step closer to a total breakdown, like with the breaks hanging on a loose thread and everything. That actually made it dangerous while travelling—damn, I truly hate myself for realising these possibly hazardous things when I’m already doing it for the past hours.

Father randomly pops out of my head again. Throughout this entire trip, he would suddenly swim through the surfaces of my thoughts, and now’s the u