The Girl Who Only Cries in the Car

I wear professionalism like a second skin—pressed slacks, polite smiles, voice like smooth glass. But pull the seatbelt tight and close the car door, and I come undone in the quiet dark. I rage in whispers. I mourn the parts of me I fold up and store each night. This car is my confession booth, my war room, my dance floor. I don’t need therapy—I need the engine to stay running long enough to outlast the ache.