The sun hangs high and golden, spilling warmth across everything—the gravel beneath my feet, the black paint of the car, the white roses climbing the garden wall in full, heavy blooms.
I lean against the passenger door outside the house. My shoulder blades press into the cool metal. My arms are crossed. My patience is thinning like frost beneath a rising sun.
My glasses are on. Dark lenses. A wall between me and the world.
I don't know where he's taking me. He wouldn't say. When I asked, he just smiled—that soft, closed-lip smile of his—and shook his head.
A secret.
His brown eyes lit up like a child's on the morning of a birthday. Careful. Excited.
I didn't ask again.
But if it's a public place—crowded, noisy, full of people—the constant noise of their minds will ruin my mood within minutes.
So the glasses stay on.
The dark lenses soften everything—the green of the garden, the white of the roses, the impossible blue of the sky. It all feels farther away.
Safer.
