All he does is run. He never took an interest in it before, so no one really knows why he chose now to begin a new hobby.
He also never took a day off. It could be a downpour, a thunderstorm, negative degrees or scorching hot: he will always run. It’s become his excuse and his outlet.
“I can’t. I haven’t gone for a run yet today.”
“I’ll hang out later, I gotta go for a quick jog first.”
“I’m super fucking pissed right now. I need to go for a run.”
“I really don’t want to talk about it. I’m just gonna go for a run.”
It became his therapy. Running became his life. But he began to run so much his family grew concerned. Family dinners were interrupted when he excused himself from the table so he could “have a proper stretch and bath” before bed. He’d blow off his friends so he could get a good night’s rest for his long run he planned at 5 a.m.
Running was the only thing that kept him sane. Running gave him a purpose; something to look forward to everyday. A form of stress relief and temporary euphoria.
But oh, if only they knew what he was really running from.
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