That night, the back of your head was such a sight to see. Your worn-but-new sneakers slamming against the pavement was a symphony, the volume decreasing with every step. Your hands running through your hair in angst after being gelled to your forehead by sweat. Lastly, you throw your head over your shoulder for one.
Last.
Look.
You were the devil in disguise under the muted yellow street light. Your expression sent a thousand messages, but mine only expressed one.

I’m free.