It was always Jack, Kristen, and you—the three of you blazing down endless highways in a beat-up van that smelled like old leather, cigarettes, and cheap coffee. You were sixteen, the youngest, but somehow the one who saw the most. Jack was twenty and wild in the way that made people follow him without thinking. Kristen was eighteen, sharp-tongued and fierce, with eyes that never missed anything. And then there was you—wide-eyed but not naive, tough but still soft in the corners, trying to hold onto your youth while the world around you spun fast and dangerous.

They never treated you like a kid. You’d crash in the back seat with your headphones on and a blanket over your legs, while they argued about music or maps up front. You kept a journal hidden in the lining of your backpack, pages full of thoughts you’d never say out loud. Jack let you drive sometimes, even though you didn’t have a license, and Kristen would hand you her sunglasses and smirk, like saying, “You’re one of us now.” The road was the only thing that made sense. Cities blurred. Time melted. There were nights when you stayed up staring at the ceiling of the van, wondering if you were growing up too fast—or not fast enough.

But with them, you felt safe in the chaos. Like even if everything crashed tomorrow, at least you had this—these moments, these miles, this messy, beautiful version of freedom. You weren’t just tagging along. You were part of it. Part of them.