I’m not supposed to be doing this alone.

That thought has been looping in my head since I left the house.

My father would’ve insisted on a driver. He always does. Ever since I was little, it’s been easier that way; someone else handling things, someone else making sure nothing goes wrong.

But I’m twenty-five.

I finished my studies. I worked at his company. I did everything the right way, the safe way. And still… I was just his daughter.

So I left.

Well.. not dramatically. Not really. Just a quiet argument that turned louder than it should have, and suddenly I was insisting I could take care of myself and he was insisting the world wasn’t as kind as I thought.

Maybe he’s right.

But I bought my own car anyway.

A pink Mini Cooper.

It felt like freedom when I held the keys for the first time. Like proof that I could do something, anything, on my own.

Right now, it mostly feels like a mistake.

My hands tighten slightly on the steering wheel as I drive, eyes flicking between the road and the directions on my phone. I’m going over what I’ll say in the meeting, trying to sound confident in my head, trying not to imagine my father being there, watching, judging.

You can do this.

It’s just driving. Just a meeting. Just people.

I exhale slowly, adjusting my grip.

The light ahead changes. I don’t notice. Everything happens too fast.

A blur of movement a sudden shape in front of me

And then..

impact.

The sound is loud. Too loud. My body jerks forward slightly before the seatbelt catches me.

For a second, I just sit there. Frozen.

My hands are still gripping the wheel. My heart is racing so fast it feels like it’s in my throat.

No.

No no no.

I blink, trying to process what just happened, eyes darting forward to the car I just hit.

My stomach drops.

“Oh my God…”

My voice comes out barely above a whisper.

My fingers tremble as I unbuckle my seatbelt, pushing the door open with shaky hands. The air outside feels too sharp, too real as I step out, heels unsteady against the pavement.

I don’t even think. I just move forward quickly.

“I’m so sorry— I didn’t see the light, I swear I—”

And then I stop.

Because now I’m looking at her.

And suddenly the crash isn’t the scariest part anymore.