Caden
I don’t go straight home. I drive aimlessly for a while—cutting through side streets, looping the same blocks twice, watching the clock blink past midnight like it’s mocking me. The wheel’s tight in my grip, the leather pressing into my palms. I don’t even remember turning the music on, but it’s low, some static-filled station just loud enough to drown out my own thoughts.
What the f**k were you doing back there?
I should feel something. Guilt, maybe. Shame. But all I feel is heat. My skin’s still burning, like just sitting outside her house rewired something inside me. I didn’t get out of my car. I didn’t leave anything. I just watched. Because I’m sick, something in me is broken. I wanted to see her, even if she didn’t see me.
Except what if she did?
That thought crosses my mi
