Isabella
The ride back felt different, but not in a dramatic way and not in the kind of way you notice immediately and name and analyze until it loses meaning.
It was quieter than the ride there, not empty, but just settled, like my thoughts had finally stopped running in circles and decided, reluctantly, to sit beside me instead of dragging me under.
Apparently, I thought we were going to part ways or stick to the agreement of going home by ourselves, but the man driving had other plans.
Dylan didn’t talk much, which, somehow, was worse, because I had expected him to fill the silence the way most people did when silence got too honest.
He didn’t. He just drove, with one hand on the wheel, and the other resting near the console like he wasn’t thinking too hard about anything at all.
