The Accident Wasn’t What I Thought
Printed emails.
Old messages.
A police report.
The date of the accident.
The route.
An address that was not his grandparents’ house.
My stomach rolled as I saw a name I hadn’t expected.
Jenna.
Messages between him and my best friend from that day.
“Can’t stay long,” he’d written. “Got to get back before she suspects.”
“Drive safe,” Jenna replied. “Love you.”
I looked up, staring at him.
“Tell me she’s lying.”
He didn’t deny it.
He started crying.
My mother’s voice cut through the silence.
“He wasn’t driving to his grandparents that night,” she said. “He was driving home from his mistress.”
My throat went dry.
“No,” I whispered.
He nodded, eyes squeezed shut.
“Before the accident… it was a few months,” he choked out. “I was young and selfish.”
“A few months,” I repeated, like I was tasting poison.
“So the night of the accident…” I said slowly.
He nodded again.
“I was leaving her place when I hit the ice.”
And suddenly the truth hit me like a physical blow.
The story I’d built my whole life on… wasn’t real.
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