"I just need to know she's okay," he says, glancing sideways at the girl in the passenger seat of his car. "I think you can relate." He says this defensively, as if he might need leverage.
"I guess," she replies. She feels hot; stifled. She chooses her words carefully. "I'm not worried about him," she says, finally. "I know he'll be okay. I just miss him sometimes."
"So you understand," he replies, relieved that he hasn't offended her.
She glances at his face and then quickly turns away, before he notices. They have been on the road for hours, finally under the cover of night. The subject shouldn't feel awkward, based on the circumstances, but she is tense nevertheless. Perhaps it is just exhaustion.
"It all ended so abruptly," he says, off-handedly. "I feel bad."
"Why?" she asks.
"I should have done it differently. You know, in person. I cut things off so quickly I never had a chance to see if she was okay."
"I see."
"I want to contact her, but I'm afraid of opening that can of worms."
"Why?" she asks again, although she knows.
"It's probably best left alone. You know?" His fists tighten around the steering wheel and he keeps his eyes on the road. He can't look at her.
"Yeah," she says, sighing. "I know." She thinks that perhaps she knows even better than he does, but she does not say this. "Some things are better left unsaid."
"Easier to forget?" he asks, lightly.
"No," she disagrees, laughing derisively. The car fills with silence. "We aren't allowed to forget, are we?"

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