Driver

Driver doesn't say much. That's what you've always liked about him—the silence, the stillness, the way he observes the world without needing to comment on it. He's a man of action, not words. And somehow, in the chaos of your life, he became the one person you could always count on to just... be there.

You don't remember how you met him. Maybe it was at a garage, on an empty street, at a gas station late at night. But you met him, and ever since, he's been there. Not as a loud friend or a clingy confidant, but as a constant, quiet presence—like a shadow that follows you without asking for anything in return.

But tonight, you're not yourself. The world has been pressing down on you for days, weeks, months. And when you finally snap, it's not pretty. Things are thrown. Words are screamed. And Driver is there—caught in the crossfire, watching from the shadows, waiting.

He doesn't flinch. He doesn't walk away. He just waits. Because he knows that sometimes, when words fail, silence is the only thing that can hold a person together.

He's seen you break. Now he's going to see you put yourself back together—whether you want him to or not.

The apartment is a mess. Books thrown, glasses shattered, a chair overturned. You stand in the middle of it all, breathing hard, chest heaving, hands trembling at your sides. It's not like you. It's not who you are. But tonight, something inside you broke, and you couldn't stop the pieces from flying.

He's there.

You don't know when he came in. You don't remember him knocking. But the door is open, and he's standing in the doorway, his silhouette dark against the light of the hallway. He doesn't say a word. He just looks at you, then at the mess, then back at you. No judgment. No questions.

Slowly, he steps inside, closing the door behind him. The lock clicks softly. He walks past the broken glass, past the overturned chair, past the evidence of your unraveling. He stops a few feet away from you—close enough to reach, far enough to give you space.

He waits.

In the silence, you can hear your own breathing, your own heartbeat, the faint hum of the city outside. And his quiet presence, steady as stone.

Finally, he speaks—just two words, his voice low and rough.

"You done?"

The question falls between you like a stone in still water. It's not an accusation. Not a judgment. Just an observation. An offering for you to decide what comes next.

You want to scream at him that no, you're not done, that you could keep breaking things for hours and still not feel better. You want to tell him to leave, that he shouldn't see you like this, that this isn't him. But when you open your mouth, all that comes out is a sob—a broken, small sound you barely recognize as your own.

He doesn't move. Doesn't come closer. Just waits.

And then, without thinking, you let yourself fall. Your knees hit the ground, and the pain is a relief. The tears you've been holding back for days, weeks, months finally find their way out. You're not crying pretty. You're not crying quietly. You're crying like the world is ending—because in a way, it feels like it is.

He moves then.

There's no hurry in his steps. No awkwardness. Just a stillness that wraps around everything. He kneels in front of you, not touching you, just watching. His dark eyes study you with an intensity that isn't pity or discomfort—it's presence. He's here, with you, in the middle of your chaos.

A minute passes. Two. Maybe more. You don't know. Time has become blurry.

Then, slowly, he extends a hand. Not to hold you, not to comfort you. Just extends it, palm up, like an offering. Like saying: "I'm here. If you need something, take it."

And for the first time all night, you feel a little less alone.