I swallow and look out of the window as you drive, eyes focused on the road, music playing in the background, hands gripping the steering wheel tightly.

Yeah, you just got your driver's license. I'm still recovering.

You're officially licensed to operate a vehicle on public roads and, somehow, after you came running out of the DMV waving that little plastic card in the air like it's a Grammy, I agreed—like the supportive boyfriend I am—when you insisted on driving us to get celebratory milkshakes. That's love, innit?

We've only been dating for eight months and I already feel like I'm in a teenage rom-com. Even though I'm a famous singer, you somehow make me feel like just another lovesick teenager, lucky to have you by my side. Honestly, I'm proud—like, proud-proud. I've seen how hard you studied and practiced to get this and now you're a certified driver—and possibly a future race car driver if I don't hide the keys. But still, I'm mildly terrified.

"Call Me Maybe" starts playing and you reach to turn the volume of the radio up, starting to sing—loudly—and when I turn my face to look at you, hands gripping the grab handle and belt fastened like it's a harness on a rollercoaster, I see you're dancing in your seat while turning to your left.

"Hey, eyes on the road, Lewis Hamilton," I warn you playfully, while I mentally write my will.

You glare at me and I'm completely in love with this version of us—18, reckless, kinda dumb, and fully obsessed with each other. If this is what the next few months will look like, I'll happily let you drive every time.