Matthew's P.O.V
The McLaren 570GT purred as I pulled out of the restaurant parking lot, but that night the engine felt way too loud, like it was clashing with the emptiness in my head. Ever since Theo disappeared, his phone's been dead. At first, I thought he was just pissed at me, or maybe he needed space to sort himself out, to make sure he could really cut me off. But the longer the silence dragged on, the heavier it sat in my chest.
I hit dial again, one hand still on the wheel. The ringtone spun out, cold and endless, echoing like it was bouncing around inside a hollow room.
"Theo … please pick up," I whispered, so soft even I barely heard it.
City lights streaked past the windshield, but instead of calming me down, they just made my chest tighter. Every second without an answer gnawed at me, until I finally gave up trying to breathe steady and slammed the pedal harder, forcing the car to outrun my thoughts.
