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Lucas's Perspective

The drive to Erica's house felt longer than it probably was, the silence between us stretching like a thin piece of glass—something you didn't dare touch too hard for fear it might crack. The only constant sound was the quiet, almost soothing hum of the Porsche's engine, a smooth, steady purr that seemed to match the drumming of the afternoon against the windshield. Now and then, the tires hummed softly over changes in the road texture.

I let the silence live there. I didn't feel the need to fill it, and more importantly, I suspected she didn't either. Some people hide behind words, while others hide in the spaces between them. Erica seemed like the second kind—someone whose walls weren't just tall, but reinforced with years of careful brickwork.

The world beyond the glass moved in a slow, rhythmic scroll. Rows of suburban houses slid past, each one with its neatly cut lawns, cars tucked into driveways, and mailboxes that leaned in their own tired ways. The sunlight spilled in uneven patches through the trees, flickering against the dashboard like a slow, hypnotic heartbeat.

I kept my eyes forward, hands steady on the wheel.

Then, finally, Erica's voice broke through the stillness, like a thought spoken aloud. "You're not the first person who's tried to help me," she said. The way she said it wasn't defensive, exactly—but it also wasn't warm. It was like she was presenting me with a fact, stripped of all invitation to probe deeper.

Still, I replied with the same composure, not looking away from the road. "I should hope not."

Her hands, resting in her lap, weren't still. Her fingers tapped against each other for a moment before she twisted them loosely together. "I usually just… push them away. Eventually, they get the message."

I let my eyes flick toward her briefly, then returned them to the road. The hum of the engine filled the pause before I asked quietly, "Why?"

She let out a slow, frustrated sigh. It didn't sound like she was irritated at me—more at the fact that she'd known the question was coming, yet still dreaded answering it. "After being sick for so long," she began, her voice softer but heavy with a well-worn exhaustion, "you kind of… adapt to it. You get used to the seizures, used to sitting in sterile rooms with doctors who always have that same face, used to the taste of meds you hate but have to take anyway. Those things become routine."

Her gaze drifted outside, to the blur of houses beyond the window. For a moment, I thought she might leave it at that—but then her voice dropped slightly, as if the next part was the hardest. "But what you never get used to—" she hesitated here, the words perched on her tongue like they didn't want to come out "—is the look in people's eyes. That look of pity, or worse, careful sympathy. Like I'm this fragile glass doll they're afraid to set down too hard in case I shatter. They stop seeing you as a person and start seeing you as… the sick girl."

The air in the car felt heavier for a moment.

I turned my head just enough to catch her profile before looking ahead again. "Is this you pushing me away now?"

Her silence stretched for a few seconds, long enough for me to start wondering if she'd answer at all. "…No," she said at last. "Because you don't look at me that way. I don't get it. Why is that?"

I took in a quiet breath, my focus narrowing on a bend in the road. My voice was steady, but the weight behind it was different—personal. "Because, when I was growing up in the orphanage, I got my own set of labels. Names people never said to my face, but whispered just loud enough for me to hear. 'Trouble.' 'Hothead.' 'The kid nobody wanted.'"

A corner of my mouth twitched in what might have been a smile, but there was no humor in it. "It wasn't fun. But it taught me something important."

She was watching me now; I could feel it without needing to glance over. Her attention was quiet but sharp, as if the next thing I said mattered more than I knew.

"I don't like that the school—and maybe this whole town—sees me as the Lockwood kid," I went on. "But if I let every little thing people thought about me sink in, I wouldn't have much left to live for. I'd just end up being exactly who they decided I was."

She gave a short nod, slow and reluctant, as if she was trying the thought on in her head but wasn't sure if it fit yet.

"It really doesn't matter what someone else decides to see you as," I said more softly now. "If you ask me? I see a strong, intelligent girl… who doesn't give herself half the credit she deserves."

Something shifted in her face then—not pity, not sadness. Something smaller and warmer, like a candle flame flickering against the wind but refusing to go out.

"You're a strange guy, Lockwood," she said, and there was the slightest upward curve at her lips.

"I've heard worse," I replied lightly, slowing as the modest, well-kept house came into view. Its faded blue mailbox leaned toward the street like it had been standing guard for years.

I pulled into the driveway and let the engine idle. She reached for the handle, then hesitated, her fingers still curled around it. "Thanks… for the ride."

I gave her a nod—not overly warm, but genuine. "Anytime."

She stepped out, closing the door carefully, not with the careless push of someone eager to leave. I stayed there for a beat, watching her until she disappeared inside.

Only then did I shift the car into reverse, the sound of gravel under the tires carrying me back into the quiet.