I sit in the car, leaning back against the seat, eyes fixed on the window.
The night stretches outside—dark streets washed in bright light, streetlamps smearing into soft blurs as the car moves forward.
Cold.
Just like that night.
When I was little.
The memory comes without warning.
I'm sitting on the dining table, legs too short to touch the floor, swinging impatiently back and forth. A spoon clenched in my small hand, tapping against the edge of the bowl. I'm hungry—achingly so. The kitchen smells like chicken soup, warm and comforting.
My mother stands by the stove. She glances at me and sighs softly.
"Neon," she says, gentle but firm, "you should learn patience."
I puff out my cheeks. "Mommy, I'm hungry."
She smiles—soft, fond—and pours the soup carefully into my bowl. She places it in front of me like it's something precious.
"I know, my love."
I blink at her, too small to understand what love really means.
