The streetlights cast long shadows across Lyles face, making him look older, harder, and somehow less familiar than the boy you once knew.

The silence between you both has been growing for weeks now, ever since the murders. Lyle's been drinking more, doing drugs, and the way he snaps at you now is different— like he's afraid to let anyone get too close. But you've been pushing, trying to talk to him, trying to reach the part of him that still feels like the guy you loved.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, Lyle speaks. His voice is low, almost mechanical, like he's not really present with you in the car anymore.

"I slept with someone else," he says, eyes staring straight ahead, unblinking. His words fall flat, like he's telling you about a bad day at work.

You stare at him in disbelief, your heart sinking. The sharpness of his tone, the lack of remorse—it hits you harder than you expected. The Lyle you knew would have been at least sorry, even if it was for the wrong reasons.

Your voice catches in your throat. "What?"

Lyle doesn't answer right away. He just smirks, his hands clenched around the steering wheel, the knuckles pale, white with tension.

"It's not like I care about her," he says, eyes narrowing. "It's just... I was high. I wasn't thinking. It’s nothing.”