Danilo
I drove.
That was all I could do. Drive and try not to think about the weight of Kolli's hand on the seat between us, close but not touching mine.
The silence in the Mercedes was deafening. I wished I had switched on the radio. Something. Anything. A stupid Christmas playlist, a talk show, the static between stations. But the quiet felt safer than filling it with the wrong song and watching Kolli's face change.
Was he still angry about this morning? Or was it worse than that.
Eight years. Eight years of marriage and right now we felt like strangers sitting next to each other at a bus stop. Polite. Distant. Afraid to say the wrong thing and ruin what little we had left.
