A/N - Some paths are chosen.

Some paths choose you when you are too afraid to choose anything at all. So you run to the safest harbour, the one that does not ask too much, the one that holds you like a wound that has learned to call itself healed. You think it through. You lay the logic down like stones across a river and you call that crossing. You call that arriving. But the body keeps a different record. It remembers what the mouth refused, what the hands never reached for, the thing with no name, the thing with teeth, the feral, breathing dark you keep choosing not to touch.