Elara
The scent of artificial pandan hanging from the rearview mirror was aggressive, a chemical sweetness that did nothing to mask the underlying stench of damp upholstery and old cigarette ash.
It was a nauseating cocktail.
I leaned my forehead against the window of the ride-share, letting the vibrations of the aging engine rattle through my skull. Every bump in the road sent a fresh spike of pain through my temples.
11:30 a.m.
By all accounts, I should have been standing in front of Class 1A right now, explaining the water cycle or gently redirecting Gafa’s endless stream of questions.
I should have been looking forward to the afternoon, watching that unassuming white hatchback pull up to the school gates so Lyra could sprint toward her father.
Instead, I was a coward in a tacti
