Until my last breath

26

Playing "the color violet" by Troy Lanez

As soon as Rita presses down on the pedal, it feels like my entire world shifts.

The car bolts forward, the force of acceleration slamming me back into my seat. The highway becomes a blur of dark asphalt streaked with lines of light from the occasional streetlamp. The exhaust growls ferociously, drowning out every thought in my head, while the smell of gasoline seeps into the air, mixing with the wind roaring through the open windows.

I glance at the speedometer—it's climbing so fast it almost feels unreal. The needle flirts with 150 km/h, and I can barely process how fast we're going. My heart pounds as the wind whips through the car, rushing over my face and adding to the chaos in my chest.

It's wild, exhilarating, terrifying.

And yet, when I glance over at her, she's completely calm.

Rita sits in the driver's seat as if she's born for this. Her body is perfectly relaxed, her posture natural, and there's a confident smirk playing on her lips. She's in complete control of the beast she's driving, her hands gripping the wheel effortlessly while the other casually shifts gears in a solid rhythm .

Her hair catches the breeze, dark strands flowing in the wind like something out of a slow-motion scene in a movie. Her eyes glint under the faint moonlight, their focus unbroken. She's locked in, unshaken, her expression pure concentration mixed with exhilaration.

The way she seems so untouchable, so in tune with herself.

This is her element.

I don't even realize I've been staring until she glances at me briefly, her lips quirking up in amusement before she returns her attention to the road. My pulse stutters, and I force myself to look out the window, pretending the highway lights are suddenly fascinating.

Minutes later, the car begins to slow, the engine growling softly as she eases up on the gas. My chest heaves, trying to catch my breath, and I glance at her as the tension in my body starts to dissipate.

"So, what do you think?" she asks, throwing me a quick glance before returning her focus to the road.

"You do this almost every week?" I manage to ask, still trying to steady my voice.

"Pretty much," she replies with a shrug, like it's the most normal thing in the world. "Only the car goes about twenty times faster, the exhaust is ten times louder, and no air gets in—just heat cooking your body for over an hour straight."

I stare at her, trying to process what she just said. "How?"

She smiles, tilting her head just slightly to the side, giving me a quick glimpse of the curve of her neck and the muscles shifting as she drives. "I've got a pretty strong tool I use," she says simply, her voice calm.

"And you love that?"

"It's hard, painful, and absolutely fatal," she says, her voice softening, "but it's still my favorite thing in the world."

Her expression changes, her lips curling into a gentle smile that looks almost bittersweet. I've seen that smile before—the same one she wears whenever racing or her family comes up in conversation. It's genuine, raw, and something entirely her own.

I open my mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. No words feel right. She notices and chuckles, her eyes crinkling at the edges as she glances at me.

"Yeah, that's how everyone looks when I tell them," she teases. "Come on, let's get you something to eat. You look like you've been through the wringer."