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The highway is usually a place of anonymity, a streaming river of steel and glass where we coexist in a state of mutual indifference. We stare at taillights and license plates, our minds drifting through podcasts or mental to-do lists, rarely considering the interior lives of the strangers in the lanes beside us. Most people use their rear windows to broadcast trivialities: a stick-figure family, a university decal, or a faded “Baby on Board” sign. But on a sweltering Tuesday afternoon, amidst the rhythmic hum of interstate traffic, a mud-splattered black SUV turned a mundane commute into a site of profound public reckoning.
The driver had bypassed the colorful stickers and the clever vanity plates. Instead, they had taken a white grease pencil and used the back window as a canvas for a manifesto of raw, jagged honesty. The message was written in a hurried, trembling hand, the letters large enough to be read from three car lengths back. It didn’t just demand attention; it commanded a silence that felt heavy enough to dampen the sound of the engines.
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