The Boy and The Moon

Theo drives me home with his grandma's old sedan. The night is quiet, soft. The car hums down the empty road, past shuttered shops and still houses. A breeze brushes my cheek as I lower the window, letting the cool spring air in. The chirp of crickets filters in, paired with the faint rustle of trees. Theo turns on the radio, low. A gentle jazz tune plays in the background, barely there—just enough to keep the silence from feeling too heavy.

I rest my head against the window, watching the passing blur of fences and lamplight. "When I was a kid," I begin, "I used to dream about going on a vacation in a car. Packing everything the night before, snacks and pillows and bags, and just ... driving. No plans. Just the road."

Theo glances at me, the corner of his lips curled slightly. "That sounds nice."

I nod. "But it never happened. I—" I pause, unsure how much I want to say. Then, softly, "I grew up in a place where ... it wasn't possible."