He stepped on the gas, and the car surged forward into the midnight fog. They were a beautiful tragedy in motion—a feat of endurance, a duet sung in different keys. They were "Cum ne noi"—how we are, how we aren't, and the beautiful, terrible mess in between.
"We always say we’re 'us,'" she said softly, her voice barely audible over the rhythmic thrum of the wipers. "But lately, I don't recognize the 'us' we’ve become."
As the city lights faded in the rearview mirror, the radio began to play a familiar melody. They both knew the words, but for the first time in years, neither of them sang along.
"How do we..." Elias started, his voice cracking. "How do we do this? How do we exist when the fire has turned to grey ash?"
Elias didn’t look at her. He couldn’t. Behind the mask he wore—the one he showed the world to hide his scars—he was crumbling. He thought of the lyrics they used to hum together, songs about souls entwined like ivy, impossible to separate without tearing the skin. Now, they were just two echoes in an empty hallway.
"We don't," she whispered. "We just keep moving until the music stops."
