Chapter 1 - The Car Ride
The hallway was quiet after the last bell rang. Your footsteps echoed against the linoleum floor, slow, heavy. A few students lingered by their lockers, laughing, carefree, untouched by the weight you carried in your spine. You didn’t look at them. You just wanted to get out.
The sun was too bright when you stepped outside, the kind that made your eyes ache. You squinted as you adjusted the strap of your bag on your shoulder, dragging your body toward the parking lot like something half-dead. You could feel the exhaustion not just in your bones, but in the space behind your eyes—an invisible fog that never lifted.
And there he was.
Leaning against the side of the car with his sleeves rolled up, arms crossed over a broad chest. He looked like he belonged on a billboard, not in your life. White shirt, pressed slacks, expensive watch catching the sun. His smile came easily when he saw you. It always did.
“Sweetie, you must be tired,” Kenji said softly, stepping forward, reaching a hand out to you.
You didn’t answer.
His fingers moved toward your hair, slow and careful, like he was trying not to scare you. But you flinched—not outwardly, not dramatically, just enough to make the air shift between you. You brushed his hand away without a word and opened the car door.
You slid in, shut it behind you. The silence thudded louder than the sound. Kenji stood there for a second, hand still slightly raised, before he let it fall and walked around to the driver’s side.
He didn’t speak when he got in. Just started the car and pulled onto the road.
You stared out the window.
The city passed by in blurs—signs, lights, people. Everything was in motion but you. You sat still, pressed against the leather seat like a ghost pretending to be a girl.
“You didn’t eat lunch again, did you?” he finally asked.
You shrugged. A small one. Barely there.
Kenji sighed, one hand on the steering wheel, the other running through his hair. “You need to take better care of yourself. You’re going to get sick if you keep pushing like this.”
You didn’t answer. You’d heard this before. Over and over. The concern in his voice was real—too real. That was the problem. He cared. He cared too much for a marriage that never should’ve happened. For a girl who was never ready.
You were just eighteen.
And he was already thirty-two.
And everyone said it would be fine.
