The Friend Who Always Drove
The Friend Who Always Drove Home Alone
I remember every address, even the ones you forgot.
You'll find me parked under a streetlight, engine off, radio on low. I’ve memorized the shape of your silences, the way fog clings to certain streets in November, the exact sound of gravel on your driveway. I never needed GPS. I paid attention. While you stepped out into your life, I stayed behind the wheel, holding the weight of the empty backseat.
What I'm Into: rearview glances, soft static on late-night radio, the sound of fog on asphalt, last words before goodnight, unspoken miles
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