FOCUS ON ME [h.s.]

chapter two

"I'M SO SORRY," SHE FINDS HERSELF SAYING AGAIN, each time sounding quieter than the last.

The roads are busier here than where they first were. The small commercial buildings have dissipated, being replaced by trees dotting the sides of the street, which, half the time, are covered by the classic cement barricades of a freeway shoulder, and accompanied by the constant flow of overpasses thrown onto the road. Cars litter the four-lane span of the street, weaving between one another with a similar sense of purpose; she's surprised she's still traveling at a steady pace given Los Angeles' notoriety for traffic. As a matter of fact, she's driving faster than she probably should be — though not that either she or her passenger has commented on it, yet.

Her fingers tap nervously against the steering wheel as she drives, her knuckles flushed white from her grip. She finds her eyes glancing up into her rearview more often than usual, her jaw clenched shut. The soft sound of the presence of other vehicles as she passes them is what fills the quiet, above the low rumble of her own car beneath her seat and the occasional whimper from the man in the seat beside her.

"It's fine," he reassures, "really." Since stepping into the car, his voice has almost normalized, which would almost make it difficult to decipher whether anything was actually wrong if it weren't for his hold around his wrist beneath his chin, or for how he was slumped over, his bottom nearly at the edge of his seat. He's left himself with barely a quiver to his vocals, which is easily hidden by the low pitch of his voice. But despite this his spine is still bent awkwardly against the backrest as though the discomfort in his hand has spread to the rest of his body, making his entire figure cringe in pain. His head is resting against the top of the seat, his sunglasses now discarded somewhere on the ground, leaving his hair awry and his green eyes squinting under the sunlight pouring through the windshield.

A shaky breath escapes past the growing lump in her throat, piercing through her unsteady wall of poise. "No, i-it's not," the words tumble from her mouth before she can stop them, "I've probably just broken y-your wrist." She pauses to bite down on her bottom lip, clenching her jaw and squeezing her eyelids together with a couple blinks in attempt to flush away the sting behind her eyes. "God, I don't—" Her voice is interrupted by her lungs as she hiccups, the sound leaving her throat with an ugly betrayal that screams attention.

She doesn't even remember what she had been thinking about at the time; what was rushing through her mind as she locked her car and adjusted her blouse forward over her shoulders, tucking away her stray bangs while her feet carried her at a pace too quick to comprehend. It had probably been about how her sense of placidity was ticking away like the seconds she was wasting, or of the overwhelming amount of apologies she'd have to make to her coworkers as she'd hand them their coffees that were too cold and too late to be acceptable. And in return, they'd remind her why exactly she was and wasn't there — as if she didn't already know.

But at the basis everything, she had known she was late for work, and should have known that no matter the speed of her steps or the carelessness of her movements, it wouldn't change that. She has been dazed from the moment she awoke to a blissful silence this morning, her brain never less than ten feet away from her body, sitting back and watching her day unravel at her fingertips. Perhaps that's why she's driving in the exact opposite direction of her workplace, ignoring her initial pile of priorities and instead focusing on an entirely new plate of problems and questionable judgment calls.

"Hey," he whispers, "please don't cry." His voice is soft, words flowing over his lips with a pitch that shocks her when she glances over to realize it's the same man sitting in the passenger seat. Their gazes meet and his eyes bore into hers, forcing her to notice how intense the green is beneath his eyelashes. His eyebrows are still knitted together but his expression reads different; the words on his facial features written as though he's forgiven the pain — as if it wasn't even there to begin with. It's been replaced with concern, a sudden realization that isn't really sudden at all that he is, in his opinion, not the most important person in the car.