Even then, she was a priority.
Twenty-two minutes later, he was gone. Eleanor’s last words over the intercom: “He left the key last week.”
He had been planning his escape long before the accident forced me to do so. Strangely enough, this truth didn’t hurt and became even more obvious.
Months passed, and the consequences caught up with him. A coworker sent me a photo of him drunk at a bar, complaining that I’d overdone the “crash.” His father whispered about Tyler’s vacation every Thursday.
Two months later, he sent me three pages of remorse: therapy sessions, trips to the crash site, pleas for a “second chance.” I created a filter that sent all messages from his address to the trash.
Six months later, my terraced house was filled with laughter. David cooked, friends filled my plates at the thrift store, and the silver lines on my forehead were no longer scars but proof of survival.
One quiet Thursday, I sat on the couch with a book, the afternoon sun warming my face. For the first time in years, the day was free from fear. Just an ordinary Thursday, full of possibilities.
The collision almost killed me. Instead, it brought me back to life.
