Highways

I drove home early today.
Well, technically I left only a few hours early, but for some reason, when I arrived, I felt like I was days late.
I found out that my dad sets the alarm, again. I also found out that I still remember that four-digit code. As I punched in the numbers, my dad was sitting straight up in the bed.
"Les?" He says sleepily. The phrase is half-question and half affirmation. Then again, if I was a thief in the night, I was doing a really horrible job. No one currently in the house was expecting and I thought it rude to announce a visit via phone-call at three in the morning.
"Why...what are you doing here so early?" My dad asks as he tries to adjust his eyes to the numerical digits that blaze across the clock.
I lie.
"I decided to go for a drive and I ended up here." I force a small chuckle at my own A.M silliness.
My dad knows that I would like nothing more than to me a nomad, living off the land and learning about its inhabitants. He is the only person that understood why I would drive around with all my clean laundry in a bag for two weeks. I desperately wanted the ability to get-up-and-go. No packing. No angry letters. No checking bank statements. Just drive.
Well, that's what I did.
I didn't lie.
I had a menial plan and somehow that plan dissolved into me being homeward bound. And here I was, standing like 16-year-old that had just been caught sneaking out of their parents house. Yet, I was indeed trying to sneak in.
Meanwhile, at the place I had considered home, I had somehow committed an unspoken "party foul'; you don't go home to mom and dad.
I had lost my best friend. I haven't talked to him in a week. I realized something that my mind and been tinkering with for a long time. To him, I was nothing or in his words, a mere "spy."
I sent him a message that I am sure has been slightly distorted as it traveled from person-to-person.
If he could read it in actual words, with his eyes not blinded by his own self-righteousness, he would read this;
I know you probably think that I am being silly or making a mistake. I will come crying in your room about how sorry I am in a few days. You are probably compartmentalizing it in your head as one of those instances of emotional instability. You probably want to write an angry letter entitled; To Les because she is acting f****** ridiculous. I am not sure. Just use your own creative liberty. I trust that. What I don't trust,however, is you.
If you'd like, we can pretend. You can wave at me and smile and joke around. I will look at you in that same way. But this time, you will not be my friend. You will be pitiful. Everything we will do together will be a hollow shell of the happiness that we once actually encountered. Superficially, everything will look beautiful. Everything except for you, your lies, your deceit, and your hypocritical nature. So please, tell me that you are fine, that you are always fine, and that everything is fine.
I wish you the best in your fineness.
He won't read this. And if he does, he will only see what he wants.
And that is how I found myself alone, again, just like the 16-year-old me, crying over silly things, in my parent's house.