Getaway

It is a Monday morning in October, and North Carolina feels quieter than usual.

Or maybe it’s just me.

The air is cool but not cold, the kind of morning that should feel refreshing. Instead, everything feels suspended—like the world is holding its breath and waiting for me to catch up.

My brain won’t stop.

It hasn’t stopped for weeks, maybe longer if I’m being honest. There’s always something—what I should be doing, what I could be doing, what I’m going to regret if I don’t figure it out soon.

It’s exhausting.

I stand in the middle of my room, staring at my suitcase on the floor. It’s open, half-packed, like I started with confidence and then lost it somewhere between deciding which shoes to bring and questioning my entire life.

This trip was supposed to be simple.

Just a break.

Just a reset.

Just something to interrupt the constant noise in my head.

But even now, hours before I leave, I can feel the overthinking creeping in again.

What if this doesn’t help?

What if I come back exactly the same?

What if I’m the problem, and no change of scenery is going to fix that?

I exhale slowly, pressing my hands against the edge of my desk like I can physically ground myself.

This is why I booked the trip.

Because I was tired of thinking in circles.

Tired of plans that felt right on paper but wrong everywhere else.

Tired of pretending I knew what I was doing.

I glance at my phone.

No new notifications.

No last-minute messages telling me not to go.

No reason to stay.

And somehow, that makes it feel more real.

I zip up my suitcase before I can change my mind.

The sound is louder than it should be.

Final.

The drive to the airport feels longer than usual.

Every stoplight lingers. Every turn feels too familiar. I catch myself memorizing things I’ve seen a thousand times before—the way the sunlight hits the road, the coffee shop on the corner, the same gas station sign flickering like it always does.

It’s strange what your brain decides is important when you’re about to leave.

Like it’s trying to convince you this matters more than wherever you’re going.

By the time I park, my chest feels tight.

Not panic. Not exactly.

Just… awareness.

That I’m doing something that doesn’t fit neatly into the version of my life I’ve been following.

Inside the airport, everything moves fast.

People rushing. Announcements echoing. Suitcases rolling across tile floors in uneven rhythms.

It should feel chaotic.

But for the first time in a while, my thoughts quiet down.

Not completely.

But enough.

I check my ticket. Adjust the strap of my bag. Move forward with the line.

One step at a time.

No overthinking.

Not yet.