The steering wheel trembled under my hands, a cold, mocking reminder that I was never really in control of anything. The engine groaned, sputtered, then died. Panic clawed at my chest, sharp and unrelenting, as the truck loomed closer on the driver's side. My foot slammed the brake, the car skidding on the slick asphalt.
And in that moment, I thought about my life, or what I had always been told my life was. Perfect. Polished. Photographed smiles and applause from strangers who didn't know the half of it.
Seventeen years of living in a cage made of expectations. Parents who ruled with invisible fists, their approval a currency I could never earn. Friends chosen like accessories, each one an extension of their careful image. My girlfriend, someone I liked, yes, but ultimately someone my parents approved of because she fit their narrative.
And I let them choose. I let them dictate everything, because surviving under their watchful eyes seemed safer than rebellion. Even my own laughter was filtered through their expectations.
I thought of Raul and Morfius, the only sparks of real warmth in that suffocating world. They saw me, not the boy my parents wanted me to be. They pushed me, believed in me, even when I tried to stay small to avoid trouble. And yet… I had pushed them away. All to protect them from the storm I lived under. The regret hit harder than the spinning car.
The asphalt blurred beneath me. I swerved to avoid… something, a person, a blur in the rain... and suddenly the world spun out of my grasp.
I thought, in that surreal clarity that only comes when your life flashes before your eyes, that maybe this was my punishment. Or perhaps a release. I didn't care anymore which.
And then the truck.
I braced for impact, the rain striking my face like shards of glass. I saw the life I'd never lived, the arguments I'd swallowed, the tears I'd choked back, the moments I'd stolen from myself, and for the first time, I wanted to live. Not for anyone else. Not for perfection. For me.
The world went white.