It started with silence—the kind that settles between two people when words no longer suffice. The engine hummed beneath us, steady and oblivious, as the road curled ahead like a ribbon laid on the edge of the world. I wasn’t sure where we were going, or maybe I knew and just didn’t want to admit it. You looked straight ahead, hands loose on the wheel, like you were finally at peace with the chaos that had trailed us all this while.
"Drive off the cliff," you said, not as a command, not even as a suggestion—more like a whisper, like a secret you told yourself every night before sleep swallowed you. I laughed, not because it was funny, but because it was terrifyingly beautiful. The kind of laugh that tastes like freedom and fear mixed together.
Was it really about the cliff, or was it about letting go? Letting go of the weight, the memories, the endless cycle of almosts and not-quites. The cliff was just a metaphor—maybe. But as we approached the edge, I realized metaphors can be real too. They have teeth. They bite.
I thought about everything we carried—dreams with broken wings, promises made under starless skies, the pressure to keep pretending we were okay. What if we weren't built for safety? What if some of us are meant to crash, to burn, to rise from our own ashes?
The wind hit harder as the edge neared. I imagined flying. I imagined falling. I couldn’t tell the difference anymore.
And maybe, just maybe, that’s what it meant—to drive off the cliff. Not to end, but to begin.