POV: Ava
Gravity is a cruel thing when you've given up on the world.
The car didn't just fall; it screamed. The tires spun uselessly against the mountain air, a high-pitched whine that cut through the roar of the wind. Then came the impact. It wasn't the bone-shattering explosion I had expected. Instead, it was a sickening, wet thud as the sedan plowed through a guardrail and buried its nose into a deep, snowy embankment at the edge of the ravine.
The world turned white.
Boom. The airbags deployed with a sound like a gunshot, filling the cabin with a cloud of acrid, chemical dust. My head snapped back against the headrest, and for a second, the stars in the sky were eclipsed by the stars dancing behind my eyelids.
Silence followed. A heavy, terrifying silence, broken only by the tink-tink-tink of the cooling engine and the frantic thud of my own heart against my bruised ribs.
