The Passenger Seat I Saved for Last
3 min read · Anonymous · Premium
The first time, I used my hands.
It was a Tuesday, the kind of grey afternoon where the house feels too quiet. I came home early because of a headache, and I heard them before I saw them — that low, familiar laugh I'd known for fifteen years coming from upstairs, tangled up with my husband's voice. Marisol. My closest friend since secondary school. The woman who'd held my hand at my mother's funeral.
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