We started out today – you, the road, and I. I can feel your eyes on the side of my head, almost as strongly as the way the highway wind tosses my hair. Like the heat despite the breeze, our silence is stifling; our voices flew out the window ten miles back when the air conditioner broke. That is how it has been lately – things breaking.

We both know the windows are down as an excuse to keep the the air of solitude up. Your eyes in the back of my head are palatable, strong, and my gaze drifts out the window and is sucked into the breakneck pace we’ve whipped the air into. I can feel your desperation growing. My heart sinks as you depress the brake.

The side you pull onto to get off the road contains only gravel and dead shrubbery. I desperately search there for something to hold my attentions before they become better than me. As you let go of the arm you used to help me out of the car, I feel your fingers faint brush along my jaw and tilt my eyes to yours.

Every beat of my hearts slows so that I can feel each pulse through my veins. I feel my breath catch in my throat because my heart cannot contract fast enough to sustain air. I drink in your eyes, heartbreaking hues of a green I cannot compare and shades I cannot begin to fathom because I still have not caught my breath. I spare a painful gasp that turns into the dry chocking sob you’ve become far more than an acquaintance to. In a second, your faint touch on my cheek forms a solid link around my ribs, pending my imminent collapse.

You do not say anything; You know better now.
I pull myself together, a visible effort that, this time, succeeds.
I say nothing. Explanations are beyond me now.

Hand in hand we walk back to your car. They are more frequent, my splits of personality. You say nothing, because that is our style. Is every way, always breaking.


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