the quiet things

They don’t say much on the drive. She leans against the passenger door, eyes shut. His eyes are on the road, his head somewhere else.

They’re never alone. All these things travel with them, taking up room, making it difficult to talk. The car is crowded with trysts and mistakes, lies and secrets. They whisper and mutter amongst themselves, their conversation making the windows fog up with accusations and unspoken apologies.

Even if she wanted to say something, she wouldn’t be heard. They just drive without talking, letting the ghosts in the car speak for them.

The road never ends.

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