Brandon's POV
The engine hummed beneath us as Mr. Pat pulled up, the headlights cutting through the quiet like they didn't belong there. The night felt heavier than usual, like the world itself was holding its breath. When the car finally rolled to a stop, silence filled the space between us—thick, tired silence that came after you'd said too much and yet not enough.
Mr. Pat didn't turn the engine off right away. He sat there, hands resting on the steering wheel, staring straight ahead as if he were waiting for the road to say something first.
"So," he said eventually, his voice softer than it had been all evening. "How do you feel?"
I let out a tired breath I didn't realize I'd been holding. Exhausted didn't even begin to cover it. My body felt like it had been wrung dry—like every emotion I'd ever owned had been dragged out of me under studio lights and dissected by strangers who didn't care what bled as long as it made good television.
