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Sometimes, healing doesn’t begin in a therapist’s office or a quiet room. Sometimes, it begins on the I-95 at sixty-five miles per hour. It begins when you stop hiding the wreckage and start acknowledging that the crash happened. The driver may have been heading toward an empty house, but they were driving there with a lighter load. They had broadcast their pain, and in doing so, they had forced the world to acknowledge their existence.
Long after the taillights of that SUV had faded into the dusk, the message remained etched in the minds of those who saw it. It served as a reminder that every car we pass is a vessel for a complicated, often painful journey. It reminded us that loyalty is not just a word, but a sacred debt—and that when that debt is defaulted upon, the fallout is rarely contained within the walls of a home. We drove on into the night, more aware of the people in the lanes beside us, wondering what messages we might write on our own windows if we only had the courage to be that honest.
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