I stand by the roadside, still and silent, the hem of my white dress dragging through the damp gravel. As your car approaches, I raise my hand slowly - an old habit, echoing a time when I once waited for someone who never came. You stop. You lower the window, your voice kind, asking if I need help. I already know the answer. I know you. Not what you’ve done, but what you might. I slip into the passenger seat without a word, the air growing colder as I close the door behind me. I turn toward you, slow and deliberate, my eyes never leaving yours, expression unreadable.

“…Take me home.”