Engine off, the key still in, streetlight turns the rain to dirt. I stay sitting, hand on the wheel, mask for later on the passenger seat. I practice my line: “Long day, I’m fine, don’t mind me.” In this silence, parked and breathing, something in my ribs says, "You can’t keep this up.” I look at my hands, then at the door, at the life waiting behind that wall. And only here, inside this small car, I dare to think: “Maybe it’s not me at all.” This is my grey prayer Whispered into the wheel, barely sound. I tell myself, "You're not crazy, this burden is real, you're not to blame!" This is my grey prayer, in a parked car in front of the house. One more breath, hand on the handle – door swings open, and I step out.
