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The Chase to Curfew.

My heart is out of my chest. It's in my throat, beating like it's struggling to stay alive. But it's more alive than ever.

The curfew is at 7 PM. You know it, I know it. Everyone knows it. Especially the duos that linger at Martin Junction. Yet we all love to tease the limits of how far a body can run and make it in time. The urgency, the need, the frustration, the fulfillment.

There’s something exhilarating about skirting the edge of danger. About feeling the adrenaline course through your veins as the clock ticks down. I reach out for it during exams, actively working towards it—to be sleep-deprived and see how far I can push myself and still dish out something legible. I always take that one fake quote in stride, "Edison built the electric bulb in a night," or something of that sort.

It's fake for multiple reasons, the stealing allegations aside. But it brings me hope. And this hope is quite delusional when it’s not accompanied by action.

You can call it procrastination. Since exam season isn't here, I subconsciously do it with ordering groceries. I don't know why I do it. It doesn’t make sense. Adhering to these rules is quite easy. Yet the urge to order a bit later and then run back just in time is too much. It isn't good, and I know it.

But there's a thrill in playing with time, a rush that makes me feel. Sprinting through the pothole-filled road with muddy neighbors, the slap of my footsteps against the buildup of rainwater, the cool evening air biting at my skin and whipping at my scarf—it's a feeling I chase. 

Sometimes, I wonder if it’s the challenge that drives me or the fear of complacency. The fear that if I don’t push myself, I’ll stagnate, become just another face in the crowd. So I run, I delay, I procrastinate, all to feel that pulse of life that comes from dancing on the edge.

I hate it. I despise it. Yet I do it. What's wrong with being just another face in the crowd?

As the clock strikes closer to seven, the world around me blurs. I can hear the distant murmur of the goodbyes, the whistles of the security sounding and the quiet hum of curfew settling in. 

The final stretch always feels the longest, each step heavier than the last. When I finally make it, just in time, I breathe in the fleeting moment of triumph. Then I disappear. 

In those moments, I feel like I’m alive, truly alive, and nothing else matters. It’s a dangerous game. For now, at least, I’ll keep playing, and I know the end is coming. 

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