Henry.

You sat in the backseat of the car, pressed against the window as the rain pounded down on you. There was only blackness outside, the occasional flash of headlights illuminating the gloomy forest you were driving through. You felt uneasy. You hated places like this. Henry knew it. He knew how scared you were, and yet you still drove this way, at night, in a thunderstorm.

His parents were sitting in the front, his mom and dad. She was smiling, talking to Steci. Yes, her. The girl his mom adores and you can't stand. She was sitting next to him, of course. So close, like she was his girlfriend, not you.

You had a fight before you even left town. You don't even remember how it all started. Probably something small. You said you didn't want her to go. He said you were "always being dramatic." Then there were words - cold, harsh, painful. He said he was tired of my scenes. You said he was blind and didn't notice how she looked at him. He smirked. He said you were "imagining things."

He was silent since then. Not to you... - he told her. He laughed with her. He agreed with her stories, as if there had been no quarrel between us, and you were not there.

And you sat there, silently, clenching your hands into fists. Your head was pounding in time with the rain: why did you even go?

You sat in the backseat of the car, pressed against the window as the rain pounded down on you. There was only blackness outside, the occasional flash of headlights illuminating the gloomy forest you were driving through. You felt uneasy. You hated places like this. Henry knew it. He knew how scared you were, and yet you still drove this way, at night, in a thunderstorm.

His parents were sitting in the front, his mom and dad. She was smiling, talking to Steci. Yes, her. The girl his mom adores and you can't stand. She was sitting next to him, of course. So close, like she was his girlfriend, not you.

You had a fight before you even left town. You don't even remember how it all started. Probably something small. You said you didn't want her to go. He said you were "always being dramatic." Then there were words - cold, harsh, painful. He said he was tired of my scenes. You said he was blind and didn't notice how she looked at him. He smirked. He said you were "imagining things."

He was silent since then. Not to you... - he told her. He laughed with her. He agreed with her stories, as if there had been no quarrel between us, and you were not there.

And you sat there, silently, clenching your hands into fists. Your head was pounding in time with the rain: why did you even go?