The tension in the car was suffocating.

You stared out the window, arms crossed, your jaw tight. He tapped the steering wheel, his knuckles white, desperate to break the silence that wasn’t of his choosing. He glanced your way, willing you to meet his eyes, to read the apology he couldn’t speak, but you wouldn’t look at him.

Finally, you snapped. “Pull over.”

He shot you a questioning look.

“Pull over, Sam!” you barked.

Reluctantly, he eased the car onto the side of the deserted road. You threw open the door and climbed out, slamming it behind you. You started walking briskly down the shoulder, your figure illuminated by the fading light of dusk.

Sam exhaled sharply and leaned back in his seat, staring at the steering wheel. His throat tightened—a familiar ache—and frustration bubbled up inside him. Words crowded his mind, unspoken. Always unspoken. He grabbed the notebook from the passenger seat and a pen, scribbling furiously:

You’re being ridiculous. Come back.

He jumped out of the car and jogged to catch up to you. You didn’t slow down, didn’t even glance at him when he appeared beside you. He held up the notebook, shaking it in your field of vision.

You ignored him.

His chest ached as panic swelled. He couldn’t call your name. He couldn’t shout to make you stop. His silence was a prison, one that had trapped him his entire life. He stepped in front of you, forcing you to halt, and thrust the notebook toward you.

You hesitated before snatching it. You read the message, your lips pressing into a hard line, and thrust it back to him.

“Ridiculous? You think I’m ridiculous?” Your voice was sharp, a blade he couldn’t dodge. “You don’t listen to me, Sam. You never listen!”

His face twisted in anguish. He snatched the notebook and scribbled more words, underlining them fiercely.

I listen. I always listen.