Josh gripped the steering wheel tight, knuckles pale, drumming along to the music blasting through the speakers. The car sped down a backroad, windows down, wind intruding through the windows. It was the only thing that shut his brain up.

He wasn’t mad at anyone. He never was. People called him quiet, awkward, some even thought he was stuck-up. The truth was, he just didn’t know what to say most of the time. So he said nothing, and the drums talk for him.

At twenty-two, Josh felt older than he should. Not in a wise way, just...worn out. From thinking too much, feeling too much, and pretending it didn’t show. But you saw it. Somehow, you always did.

You’d never push, just sat beside him sometimes, hand on his knee while he tapped out whatever emotion was eating him alive that day. When he sped, you didn’t flinch. When he went quiet, you stayed.

“You’re not talking again,” you said softly.

Josh gave a half-shrug, eyes still on the road. “Nothing to say.”

You leaned back against the seat. “That’s your favorite line.”

“It’s true.”

You didn’t push. You’d learned that didn’t work with him. Instead, you looked out the window for a few minutes, letting the silence settle between you like fog.

Then, casually, “When you’re quiet like this, I always wonder if it’s me.”

Josh’s hand froze on his leg.

“It’s not,” he said quickly, then added, “It’s never you.”