"You can't even handle something as simple as driving? What else are you good for besides spending money?" Calvin's words cut through the tense silence like a blade. His tone dripped with disdain, stopping just short of outright calling Amber a useless burden.
Amber's knuckles whitened as she gripped the steering wheel, her trembling hands betraying her fragile composure. Her heart pounded erratically, still caught in the terror of the near accident. The sound of rain hammering the car mingled with the echoes of Calvin's harsh criticism, creating a chaotic storm both outside and within her.
She fought back tears that threatened to spill, unwilling to let her emotions cloud her already shaken focus. The road stretched ahead, dark and treacherous, illuminated only by the thin beams of the headlights struggling against the relentless downpour.
When Amber remained silent, Calvin's interest in berating her waned. He turned his attention to his phone, scrolling idly as if she weren't even there. Amber clenched her jaw, the taste of humiliation sharp on her tongue. Here she was, risking her safety in the middle of a storm—all for a phone call from Iris.
The hospital loomed in the distance, its cold fluorescent lights piercing through the rain. As soon as the car stopped, Calvin bolted out, leaving Amber to trail behind with dripping hair and soaked shoes.
The moment Calvin entered the private room, Iris's eyes lit up like stars breaking through a cloudy sky. Her smile bloomed, radiant and sweet, but the second she caught sight of Amber behind him, her expression faltered, her lips curving downward.
Wrapped in a thick quilt, Iris looked like the perfect picture of vulnerability—her pale complexion and doe-like eyes seemingly begging for comfort. She cast a hesitant glance at Amber, her voice soft and fragile. "Calvin, who is she?"
"A driver," Calvin replied dismissively, not even bothering to turn around.
Amber froze, the word slicing through her like ice. A driver. That's all she was to him now. She swallowed hard, forcing herself to accept it. "Fine," she thought bitterly. "A driver it is. It doesn't matter anymore. After today, we're done. We'll be strangers. Less than strangers." She repeated the thought like a mantra, as if it could dull the ache in her chest.
But Iris wasn't so easily satisfied. She continued to scrutinize Amber, her gaze sharp despite the frail demeanor. She refused to close her eyes, even as Calvin adjusted her blanket and spoke to her in soothing tones.
Amber shifted uncomfortably. Her presence was clearly unwanted.
"Alright, you can leave now," Calvin said over his shoulder, waving her off like an afterthought. "This has nothing to do with you."
The dismissal stung more than Amber wanted to admit. In that moment, she felt less like a person and more like an obedient dog—summoned at his convenience, discarded just as easily.
Her mind drifted back to their high school days. This wasn't her first encounter with Iris.
It had been during their first year, back when Amber's love for Calvin burned bright and naive. One afternoon, between classes, she had been leaning against the third-floor corridor railing, her gaze fixed on the basketball court below. She had watched Calvin countless times from this spot, hoping he'd glance her way or at least notice her.
But that day, he wasn't on the court. Amber scanned the grounds, wondering where he might be. Suddenly, Calvin appeared, jogging toward her from the direction of the snack shop, his hair damp with sweat and his steps hurried.
He stopped in front of her, catching his breath. "Hey," he said, startling her.
Amber's heart skipped a beat. Calvin was talking to her.
"Can you do me a favor?" he asked, holding out a black plastic bag.
Amber hesitated only for a moment before nodding eagerly. "Sure, anything."
"Great. Can you deliver this to the third stall on the left in the girls' restroom? It's for a girl named Iris. She needs it urgently."
The words hit her like a blow. The excitement she had felt seconds ago evaporated, replaced by a hollow ache. But Amber swallowed her feelings and took the bag.
"Thanks," Calvin said, flashing a brief smile before running off.
Amber had done as he asked, rushing to the restroom to deliver the bag to Iris, who looked up at her with teary gratitude. Even then, Iris had the same effect on people—a delicate vulnerability that made you want to protect her.
Years later, here Amber was again, running errands for Iris, this time in a storm.
By the time Amber made it home, the first rays of dawn were beginning to creep over the horizon. She was soaked to the bone, her body heavy with exhaustion. All she wanted was to climb into bed and sleep, but her stomach growled loudly, reminding her she hadn't eaten.
In the kitchen, she prepared a simple bowl of noodles, the steam rising to warm her cold, damp face. She sat at the counter, staring blankly at her phone.
The screen lit up repeatedly, but it was never a message from Calvin. No updates, no thanks, no acknowledgment of her existence.
The housekeeper, Florence, came downstairs to start her day and stopped in her tracks when she saw Amber. The sight was jarring: Amber, pale and gaunt, picking listlessly at her noodles.
Florence hesitated, then softly asked, "Mrs. Sawyer, are you alright?"
Amber looked up, offering a weak smile. "I'm fine. Just couldn't sleep."
