The first time she slid into my passenger seat, it felt like a song I didn’t know the words to yet—but I wanted to learn every verse.

She smelled like vanilla and cigarettes. Wore her heartbreak like eyeliner. Said things like “do you ever think we ruin people just by letting them love us?” and looked away before I could answer.

We weren’t dating. Not really. But she kept showing up. And I kept hoping she would.

The car was our safe place. The only world that made sense. Her legs on the dashboard, my fingers on the wheel, her voice low as she sang along to sad songs that sounded too much like confessions. Sometimes, I’d look over at her and forget how to breathe.

She talked about the future like it was a place she didn’t think she’d make it to. I told her she would. I never told her I needed her to.

She was chaos and calm all at once. Glitter in the glove compartment. Pain in a playlist. A walking contradiction in my hoodie and a Mustang Baby heart that never stayed too long in one lane.

And me? I was just a lad who played rugby and pretended not to care too much. Except when she was around. With her, I felt everything. Loudly.

We weren’t something you could put a label on. But when she looked at me like I was the only person on the planet who might understand her— I’d let her wreck me a thousand times over.

Just say the word. I’ll turn the volume down and let you talk. Just say the word. I’ll drive anywhere you want to go. Even if it’s nowhere.