in the rear window, taillights flare like punctuation. the highway unspools, a ribbon toward whatever counts as home tonight. you fold into the seat, small and deliberate, and say nothing more. i imagine pulling over, unlatching every hesitation, but instead we keep driving—softly, stubbornly— until the city thins to porchlights and the map forgets to be a map and becomes only this: you breathing, me driving, the night learning how to make room.
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The messiness is the point. No one texts perfectly when they really care. “driveu7home%27” captures the feeling of frantic thumbs, late nights, and the one person you trust to navigate you home. in the rear window, taillights flare like punctuation
we pass a diner with a neon apostrophe—loneliness, contracted— and your fingers find the seam of my jacket, a gesture that could be a compass or a farewell. the radio stutters, a static confession, then a voice: “Next exit—stay.” i steer without answering, because staying would rearrange us both. i imagine pulling over, unlatching every hesitation, but