The car hums beneath me, a low, steady vibration that travels through the leather seat and settles deep in my bones. My hands rest easily on the steering wheel, fingers loose and unhurried, as the road unspools before me like a ribbon of gold and shadow.
Streetlights drift past in slow succession, their glow bleeding across the asphalt in pools of amber and silver before slipping quietly into the night.
A slow smirk tugs at the corner of my mouth, a quiet amusement I can't quite hide.
The reason sits in my lap.
Not a person. Not a thing.
A collection of torn notebook pages—some folded neatly, others creased from being read and reread. They cover my entire lap, each one filled with his careful, slightly uneven handwriting. Every note asks the same question in a different way.
Please tell me what happened?
I know you're not well.
Should we go to the hospital?
You don't look well. Your face is pale.
Don't lie to me.
Please don't lie to me.
I'm worried about you.
Please.
