Nyala
Later in the day, I found myself outside with Warren. He sat in the car, and as I moved towards the back seat, he surprised me by saying, "Sit at the front. I'm not your driver." It caught me off guard, but I quickly complied, taking the seat beside him. The unspoken rules of our roles in this intricate dance we were caught up in became clearer with each passing moment.
The car started moving, and Warren decided to fill the space with loud music, singing along as he drove. The beats resonated through the car, creating an atmosphere that contrasted sharply with the turmoil in my mind.
Should I say something? I wondered, hesitating. The discomfort settled in, but I decided against voicing my unease. I didn't want to complicate things further. The music became a soundtrack to my inn
