Meredith.
The hum of the car filled the silence. I kept my eyes on the window, but I wasn't seeing much. The trees blurred past like meaningless brushstrokes.
Even the sunlight, soft and golden across the hills, felt dull against the storm in my chest.
I was still angry.
Not the kind of fury that burned out quickly—but the deep, quiet kind. The one that lingered and weighed the mind. The kind that made you forget the beauty in the world.
At the driver's seat, Dennis rolled the windows down. A rush of air surged into the car, clean and brisk. It slapped gently against my face, tossing a few strands of hair across my cheek.
Oddly enough, it helped. A little.
Several minutes passed. Then, from the driver's seat, Dennis spoke.
"Can you tell me why you're angry?"
I didn't respond. Not because I didn't want to—but because I didn't trust what would come out if I opened my mouth. Still, Dennis didn't push. When I glanced at him, he was smiling faintly. Patiently.
