DAWSON
The clock on my dashboard blinked 7:45 p.m., mocking me with every passing minute. Carla was waiting, and I was already fifteen minutes late. p.m. knuckles tightened on the steering wheel as I sped through the winding streets toward the park. Every second felt like a small betrayal. She hated when I was late.
I glanced at my phone lying on the passenger seat. No texts or missed calls. Was she annoyed? Probably. But she’d understand. She always did.
As I drove through the quiet streets, the thought of Carla kept popping up in my head. Carla had a way of grounding me, of making everything seem less chaotic. The last few weeks had been hard, with my father tightening his grip on every aspect of my life and my friends pulling away. Carla was the one constant. The one person who didn’
