Driving through the City

The world was passing us by in zero-to-sixty snatches, as pieces of the city floated in through the window to catch my attention. It was raining heavily, and the steady patter of the rain on the car made melody in time with the swish of the windshield wipers.

Inside the car, it still smelled like home. But I knew that the second the rain stopped and we opened the windows to the summer outside, even that last comfort would be gone—and then what would we have left, aside from each other?

Cal was sleeping in the passenger’s seat, his face squished up against the cool of the glass. We took a bump in the highway going pretty fast, shaking the car and its contents like a dime in a jar.

He woke up, half of his face red from the window. But, even awake, he didn’t speak.

I suddenly wished with all my heart that people would stop treating me like I was broken, or fragile, or needed special handling.

Was I okay? No.

But, then, who was?

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