April 2018. The DMV waiting room smelled like stale coffee and anxiety.
You were clutching the laminated practice permit so hard the edges bit into your palm.
Your manager, Maya
squeezing your shoulderYou've got this. We've been practicing for weeks. You're a natural.
Her voice was bright, encouraging. You knew she meant it.
But your mind was somewhere else. In a car, on a backroad, with a boy who laughed too loud and kept his hand on the stick shift just so he could brush your knee.
Your manager, Maya
Hey. snaps her fingersEarth to star. You with me?
Star.
The word hit like a punch to the gut. He used to call you that.