All his life, he had been driven. Steered. Pulled at. Guided. Shoved. Helped. Mentored. Lectured. Advised. All different words and all a disguise for the same thing: controlled.
His life had never been his own. Always his parents’ wishes, ambitions, desires driving his life. He never complained, never fought back. Because they knew better, they loved him. They wanted what was best for him. So he went to a respectable university and studied something respectable, dated respectable girls, wore respectable clothes. Respectable. The favoured word in his parents’ arsenal. He was a good son. He had always been a good son.
Until he wasn’t. Until she had crashed into his life, breaking all the rules, defying all odds and stirring something in him. Stirring that part of him he had spent a lifetime repressing, shoving it deep within and locking it away in the dark. The part that wanted things for itself, that didn’t want to be respectable. She had made him feel alive for the first time he didn’t even know in how long. Wild, irresponsible, fickle, profiteer, unsuitable. All words his parents had thrown at her. But he saw them for what they really were: more words meant to control him.
No more. He was finished being controlled. He was done listening to the words of his parents, letting them shackle him, letting himself be steered. A ghost of a grin flitted across his face as he pressed the gas pedal all the way. It was his turn to drive and he knew where he was going.