I can't help but glance over at Zach while he drives us out of the neighborhood. I notice how his body is tense and that he's gripping the steering wheel so hard that his knuckles are white, a telling sign that he's equally as anxious as I am. My hands feel clammy and my heart is racing as I think about the conversation that we are about to finally have. I give a silent prayer that I remain strong enough to get through it without breaking down.
I stare out the window watching the fields and country life fly past us. My memories feel like the weighted words of someone I thought I once knew. I have discovered, in the most sardonic way, that I, in fact, do not know what it feels like now. What it feels like now in comparison to how it felt then. Scenes replay like the surface of a broken record spinning sluggishly, permanently tracing along the inside of my mind.