Alan
The ride home was quiet, but it was the kind of quiet that was heavy with silent meaning.
Cyril’s hand rested lightly on her bag in her lap, close enough that my fingers itched to brush against hers, to hold it and never let go.
I resisted, keeping my hands on the wheel, but I stole glances at her anyway. Each time she caught my eyes, there was a flicker, something unspoken, a question, a challenge, a silent acknowledgment of the tug between us that neither of us could fully ignore.
I wanted to say something, anything, to break the tension, but every word seemed inadequate. How could I explain that the last few weeks had been hell? That every day without her felt hollow, like the air itself refused to hold me up? That her absence was a weight on my chest I couldn’t lift?
So I
