Don't Explain

twenty two

As we settled into the car and Prince started driving, a quiet calm filled the space between us. The hum of the engine, the faint sound of tires on the road, and the muted rustle of the wind outside were the only noises breaking the silence. Prince didn't say much, and neither did I, though my thoughts were anything but quiet.

I stared out the window, watching the trees blur by as my mind replayed the events of the day, particularly the way our emotionally charged moments always seemed to end up in the same place—sex. It wasn't a complaint, not really, but it was a pattern I couldn't ignore. Every time we found ourselves on the edge of something deeper, more vulnerable, the tension would dissolve into passion. It was as if we didn't know how to process the rawness between us without turning it into something physical.

I glanced over at Prince, his face set in concentration as he focused on the road. He looked calm, composed, like he wasn't wrestling with the same storm of emotions I was. But I knew better. I had seen him shift from tenderness to distance too many times not to recognize the subtle signs. I wondered if he felt it too—the push and pull, the way we teetered between intimacy and withdrawal.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized how emotionally volatile our connection was. One moment we'd be on the verge of something real, something that scared me in its intensity, and the next we'd be wrapped up in each other, our bodies doing all the talking instead of our hearts. It was intoxicating, yes, but it also left me feeling empty afterward, like we were bypassing the hard conversations in favor of the familiar.

I shifted in my seat, crossing my legs and trying to shake off the weight of my thoughts. But the question lingered—was this really what I wanted? Did I want to keep going down this path, where everything between us felt so charged, so unstable? Or did I crave something more grounded, something that didn't leave me feeling so hollow after the highs faded?

Prince glanced at me briefly, his expression unreadable, but I could feel his awareness of my mood. He didn't ask what was on my mind, and I didn't volunteer it. We just sat there, driving back to his place in silence, our thoughts taking up all the space that words couldn't fill.

The cityscape began to reappear as we neared his house, and I knew that once we stepped inside, we'd fall back into our usual routine. The thought both comforted and unsettled me.

As I sat quietly, staring out the window at the passing scenery, my thoughts swirling in a chaotic mess, I felt a sudden warmth on my knee. The gentle pressure of Prince's hand startled me out of my reverie. I turned towards him, my eyes meeting his in the dim light of the car.

His gaze was soft, searching, like he could sense the heaviness in my thoughts without me having to say a word. His hand remained on my knee, steady, offering a quiet reassurance. For a moment, neither of us spoke, the silence between us thick but not uncomfortable.

"You alright?" he asked, his voice low and gentle, breaking the quiet.

I nodded slowly, but I knew he could see through the gesture. There was something in the way his thumb traced small, soothing circles on my skin, like he was trying to calm the tension he could feel radiating from me.

"Just thinking," I murmured, not wanting to dive into the tangled mess of feelings I wasn't sure I could even explain to myself, let alone to him.

Prince's brow furrowed slightly, but he didn't push for more. Instead, he gave my knee a soft squeeze, his hand staying there as if to ground me. I leaned back in my seat, my eyes still on his as the car continued its steady pace. His presence, so commanding yet so gentle in this moment, was both a comfort and a reminder of the emotional whirlwind we seemed to live in.