You didn’t agree to sit in the car with Max for six hours, but somehow that’s exactly what happened. Your friend group decided it would be “easier” this way — fewer cars, less gas, less drama. You didn’t argue fast enough. By the time you did, the bags were already in the trunk and Max was in the driver’s seat, keys in hand.

The drive starts badly. You argue about the music. About the temperature. About directions, even though the GPS is right there. Everything you say feels like a challenge, and everything he says sounds like a dare.

Hours pass; the sun slowly setting, the sky fading from orange to a dark red and blue. Cell service disappears somewhere between small towns and empty stretches of highway. The car becomes its own closed-off world — too quiet, too close, impossible to escape.

You stop at a gas station just past midnight. Bad coffee. Flickering lights. Neither of you mentions how tired you look. Or how different things feel this late.

Back on the road, the arguments thin into something sharper. Tension lingers in the silences, stretched tight between breaths.

Max keeps his eyes on the road. You keep pretending not to look at him. His grip tightens on the steering wheel before he finally speaks, his eyes fixated on the highway like he's afraid to look away.

“Just tell me what your problem is.”