It’s not that my parents are strict. Well, kind of. But no, that’s not the main reason.
Sneaking out at midnight is not a habit. It’s a course that I like to do every now and then. I like it when I’d have to go door-to-door to check if everybody’s asleep and grinning to find them snoring their tiredness out. I like it when I’m already out, hasty and being agitated, breathing the damp air. The soft touch of cold against my skin. I like seeing the moon shining down its glory, with the silence of hundreds of people. I like jolting up every time my phone rings (thinking that it might be my dad noticing me gone). I find the night friendlier than the sun. It is. I like it when I make it home just in time before anyone wakes up. And the dizzy dose of alcohol and worry, the sigh of relief. I like every part of it; from the moment I plan things out, step out into the empty streets, the value of every minute, ’til I drift to sleep into another world of hazy events.
And it’s the closest thing I could do to falling in love –the feeling of excitement, the rapid beating of my heart. Wishing everything would go well until the end. Exerting much effort not to screw anything up.
It’s not that I long for freedom. And I’m no Cinderella. Rather, I’d wait for her to come back then it would my turn to be festive.