He left without a plan. There was no flashlight plan, schedule, or set path for him to follow. Nothing strong or loud. Just a feeling in his chest that wouldn't go away, day after day, until he had to move. At the most normal time, the choice was made. The curtains in his small room let in some morning light, which lit up the back of a chair, the edge of the table, and the bag that was waiting on the floor. The city was getting excited. Buses groaned to a stop, people stomped their feet on the sidewalk, and vendors called out to the early birds. Even though everything around him was moving, he felt strangely still, like he was watching his own life from afar.

For years, he had done what his family, job, teachers, and the weight of obligation told him to do. Every decision had been safe, smart, and sound. After school, there was a job, and then things settled into a routine. There was a dull tiredness that masked the stronger feelings, but it didn't show. In particular, there was nothing wrong. Still, something important was missing, like a word that was just out of reach. He looked for something but didn't know what it was. He only thought that staying was more difficult. He packed light because of this. A camera, some cash, some clothes, and a book with dog-eared pages that has been opened and closed a lot but not read very often. He had left behind known streets, the comforts of home, and the knowledge that all roads would lead somewhere in the end.