The weekend arrived, and this time we set off to a small town neither of us had visited before. Chris drove his red, mid-range car. Inside the car, silence filled the air—neither of us spoke beyond briefly deciding where to go. It was as if things between us still hadn't settled. Was he overreacting? I couldn't tell.
As we approached our destination, the sea came into view, stretching alongside sandy shores. But the weather was far from ideal; the sky was heavy, and rain was only minutes away. Chris drove the car slightly into the sand, thinking we could sit inside and watch the sea.
But then—trouble. The tires dug into the soft sand, and we were stuck.
I could feel the tension rising in him. "Stay calm," I said. "Let's get out, breathe a little, and wait. If someone comes, we'll ask for help." We sat on a bench nearby, the sea just ahead of us. Slowly, he began to talk. His voice, always gentle, began to soothe the space between us. That's what I always admired—Chris never lost control, never raised his voice during arguments. He managed his emotions with a calm maturity.
After a while, a garbage truck passed by. We waved it down, explained the situation, and the workers kindly helped us push the little red car back onto safe ground.
Relieved, we didn't stay long—neither of us wanted to see sand for a while.
We headed to a nearby mall, grabbed something to eat, and eventually returned home, not quite healed, but at least no longer broken. Something between us had shifted, even if just a little.