Leila
I don't remember the taxi ride home. Just fragments: the driver's nervous glance in the rearview, Lucas' limo glued to the bumper like a shadow, the way my knuckles whitened on the door handle.
Anger hummed in my veins, thick and hot, until every breath tasted like ash. The world outside the window blurred—storefronts, streetlights, faces—all of it slurring into a smear of disgust.
Everything repulsed me. The way the taxi's AC smelled like mildew. The honk of a truck that made my skull throb. The audacity of Lucas, his car inches behind, as if he thought proximity could erase what he'd done. As if his luxury wheels and tailored suit could patch the hole he'd torn in me, again.
Hatred bubbled up, familiar as a scar. It wasn't just today—the humiliation in front of the crowd, the
