“Where are we going? Where are you taking me?” I’m so scared, so angry that I want to scream. I’m trapped, no way to reach anyone, least of all Elise. She’s completely gone.

“We can go anywhere you want,” she says. “Maybe LA or San Francisco, or maybe Portland. We could drive around the whole country, go to the Grand Canyon, see everything, do anything.”

Her smile is so wide, her eyes are so bright, that hint of dangerous electricity underneath. We turn off 141 onto 285 West as I watch helplessly. It’s late with few cars around. The rain makes it worse.

“Like I said, we can sell off my grandmother’s things for now and when I turn eighteen, I’ll have more than enough money for the both of us. I’ll buy you whatever you want. You’ll be free of your parents, truly free of them. We’ll travel the world, go to Paris. Or Tokyo! I’ve always wanted to see Japan. Where do you want to go? We can take turns picking.”

She wants me to be free of my parents so I’ll never be free of her. She wants me to depend on her, to need her. She doesn’t want anyone else to have any control over me—not even myself—because she wants to be the only one who does. Life with her would be an ever-shrinking prison. Inescapable.

A new wave of rain comes down hard again, and Elise slows the car. My fingers stretch toward the door handle. Our speed is slow enough now that I could maybe roll out, but then what? We’re still on the highway, and I’m without a phone. I can’t think straight.

“What’s wrong?” she asks. “I thought you’d be happy!”

“Why would you think that?” I’m shouting now and I don’t even care. I’m done silencing myself to protect her feelings. “What part of I want to go home said I wanted to run away with you?”

Her expression darkens. “You can act like you don’t need me, but I know the truth. I know you. You want to pretend you’re tough but you’re not. You don’t know how lucky you are, Remy,” she says, shaking her head, her voice dismissive. “You have everything. But I’ve had to fight for everything, claw my way out with my bare hands, and it’s made me strong. It’s made me a survivor.” She sounds deluded, clinging onto the story she wants to believe about herself. The story that turns everything tragic in her life into something that gives her power.

“I don’t want to do this anymore.”

“Do what?”

“Play this game. You win, okay? You clearly had it worse. You’re right. Now what?”

She looks surprised. I’ve taken away one of her weapons. It was a mistake, letting her wounds define mine. Even now, I feel guilty for being “lucky,” but I know I was never lucky. Life isn’t a race to the bottom—having it worse doesn’t win her some kind of prize. Her pain doesn’t diminish my pain. It’s a false dichotomy.