CASSIAN
(Back to that Saturday)
The sedan rolled away from the curb, the asphalt humming beneath the tires as Noah's apartment building shrunk in the glass of the rearview.
He stayed there on the sidewalk for a handful of seconds, a small, stubborn silhouette against the brick. I watched him longer than I should have, my fingers tracing the grain of the leather seat until the car rounded the corner and the street vanished.
I looked forward then, my face resetting into the hard, blank mask that the world expected of me.
My chest felt hollow, a scooped-out cavity where something heavy and warm had been sitting just an hour ago.
The air in the car felt too sharp, too clinical, a jarring contrast to the dim living room and the low drone of the telenovela.
I'd spent the night unspooling myself on that sofa, letting words out that hadn't seen the sun in a decade.
It was an exposure I wasn't used to, a sudden lack of armor that made the morning chill bite deeper than usual.
