how I left.

So, I guess you (or lack of you) already know how we met.

but you don't really know that tybalt hasn't paid me back. (I refuse for my good deeds to be untied.)

My name's Bailey. Sort of like the irish cream, and I like to think that maybe just as sweet.

No, really I am.

I'm not quite sure who I am, or how I am, or even really who tybalt is. I mean, I do know her. But I don't really know her, in the same kind of sense that I know myself

I used to live in a house with a fence, that had a window I could climb out of. With french doorways which would swing open with the slightest touch. Like one night, when the old house was quite, and storm would be brewing, I could simply slip away, into complete darkness, and then I would come right back again.

But I've gone so far- I used to be able to climb out of those windows,

and past those doorways with such ease, that now I guess I enjoyed doing that so much, and so often that I just never came back.

I don't regret it.