Chapter Text
The morning that Stiles leaves he is awake long before the dawn. In fact, he has not slept all night. Instead, he has lain fully clothed on top his bed sheets staring at his ceiling, watching the shadows chase away the light before cowering at its imminent return. As he watches he keeps his mind blank, he has to, otherwise he wouldn't be able to do this.
As the first rays of daylight creep into his room Stiles gets up, pulls his abandoned lacrosse bag from underneath his bed and begins to fill it with the basics. A few clothes, cash, his laptop. He leaves the red hoodie on his bed, the photos on his wall, the skeletons in his closet. He pauses only for the photograph which resides on his bed side table. Picking it up to inspect it, the weight of the solid frame takes him by surprise. Leave it, he thinks, just leave it. He places it back down then removes the photo from its frame and wraps it carefully in one of his shirts. It is the only item in his bag that lays claim to “Stiles”.
He moves silently through the empty house, popping his head into his father’s room despite knowing full well that his dad is working the night shift. That he won’t return until hours after Stiles is gone. As Stiles descends the stairs, he runs his fingers along the bannister, the way he use to as a kid, feeling every groove in the wood, the slickness of the varnish. His grip tightens when he reaches the final step, but he lets go and completes his descent.
He exits the house through the front door, the handle feels heavy as he pulls it shut. He walks across the front yard, tosses his bag into the back of his Jeep and drives. There's no note. There's nothing he can say. His mobile phone sits on the kitchen table alongside his house key.
The morning that Stiles leaves no-one notices him go. From their beds they do not see his Jeep pass through the town. In their sleep they do not hear its engine as he drives out of Beacon Hills. The morning that Stiles leaves, he slips away from their lives and does not look back.