My mother called earlier this evening. She called about my flight details. I don’t want to go back. Thinking about it makes my heart beat faster, and not in that happy-in-love way. My palms begin to sweat. My breathing becomes shallow. I don’t want to go back. I don’t want to pack again. My clothes are unpacked in the first place. I know this day would come but I didn’t expect it to be so soon. I put off thinking about it and now, it’s less than a week away. Why can’t time go slower? I have wished this more than once. I don’t want to be alone yet. In a seemingly hostile city. Tears start to come in. I blink my eyes to stop them from flowing but one tear escapes. It streaks my cheek, going from the corner of my eye to my cheek to the side of my mouth down to my chin. I wipe it with my free hand. I already feel myself feeling lonely. That’s what the future holds. And I just don’t want to face it yet. I want to be at home, on my bed, with my family, and my dog. I don’t want to go back to the place where I’m constantly afraid. I want to stay in the place where failing is okay.