Gone (Scomiche)

Magenta

Neither of us saw the truck coming, barreling across the median and straight to us. We didn't expect it. How could we have? It's called accident after all.

It was May 24th, more than two years into our relationship. A Saturday. Scott wouldn't tell me where we were going, but that was okay.

Things had been going quite well for Scott and I. We went out about two times per week, and if we weren't doing that, then we were cuddled up at home, or singing with Pentatonix.

I wouldn't give up any of that time. These two years had been the best of my life. I wish it hadn't ended.

Scott was dressed very nicely. He wore a fancy violet sweater with black skinny jeans. I was wearing light blue skinny jeans and a white, thin, long sleeved shirt with a maroon vest and a black tie tucked under.

We drove and drove, soon hitting the border of town.

"Scott, really where are we going?" My focus was on the mini magenta pinwheel on the dash.

He smirked. "Nowhere special."

I shrugged, in too good of a mood to care. We kept talking and talking and talking and we really never stopped talking. Soon we ran out of things to say and Scott began singing. The last thing I heard was his angelic voice and saw his silly dance movements. I smiled at him. And that's the last thing I remember before it all went black.