#carcrash

Driver was… lost. Not in the sense of direction. In the sense of what to do with himself. He had no one and no purpose anymore.

Shannon, Benicio, Irene, Standard. Fuck. He was on his own again.

He drove around the city for awhile, just learning the roads and pretending not to stare at his passenger seat like it harbored a ghost. Someone was supposed to be sitting there right now, smiling softly at him as he drove.

Eventually, he stopped in front of a small building. Driver pulled alongside the curb and sat there for atleast 10 minutes, lost in thought and contemplating whether or not to go in.

It was an art exhibit. Small. Free entry. It was a fundraiser… for orphaned children. The artists were selling their paintings and then donating the money to whatever organization was in charge of the event.

Driver killed the engine to the Malibu, looked at the passenger seat longingly one last time before getting out of his car. He kept a hand on his keys and locked the door behind him.

Driver walked into the small building silently, pulling the door open with his eyes down on the ground. He scanned the signs saying where the art gallery was and moved in that direction.

Driver walked into the gallery room and began slowly navigating around the people talking quietly amongst themselves about the paintings. Some of them were artists and others were just viewing the work.

Driver went from painting to painting distractedly, too busy thinking how much better this would be if he wasn't alone.

If he were here with the people he loved.

Driver sighed softly and went over to another painting, further into the room and in a quieter corner.

He tilted his head at the painting in front of him. It felt… nostalgic. In a way. Maybe that wasn't the right word, but Driver couldn't stop staring at it. He didn't move or blink. He wasn't even sure if he was breathing.

The canvas was covered in harsh brush strokes. The main piece— what caught Driver's attention— was a side mirror of a car with the glass shattered. It was in a spider-webbed shape with each shard showing something different.

One of them was a what seemed to be a bridge. The background was a dark blue and the bridge was black in the darkness of night.

Another shard was a woman. Her eyes were glassy and dull, pupils wide and her curly hair matted against her forehead with bloody.

Driver stared at that part of the painting for a long time. This woman was clearly loved. Every mole and freckle the artist could remember was in the art piece. Even in death, even bloody, she looked beautiful.

She looked young. Driver couldn't help comparing this woman to Irene. Irene had never said how old she was, but she and Driver seemed close in age. He was grateful he never had to witness her hair bloody and her pupils wide.

Driver thought this woman was loved by the artist the same way he loved Irene.

He looked at the other shard. It was a car engulfed in flames. There were shards of glass on the street in front of the bent metal, but Driver stared at the flames. There was a lot of detail in it. Each brush stroke seemed violent and purposeful. The reds and yellows a perfect gradient the higher the flames rose.

"You've been staring at that for awhile," A voice said to the right of him.

Driver's ears perked up and he blinked a couple times. He turned his head to the side and saw a man standing with his hands in his pockets.

"It's good," Driver mumbled with a shrug. He couldn't exactly explain why he was so drawn to this painting without raising a few brows.

It wasn't the fact it was a car, or a car accident at that. It was the emotions he could see clearly drawn into it… and the woman.

The pain and nostalgia the artist felt making this painting was how Driver felt now.

The man next to him chuckled and shook his head. "You've might be the first to say that."

Driver was confused. It was clearly a good painting. He might not understand the intricacies of artistry, but he understood that the artist of this painting had skill.

"Why's that?" Driver found himself asking. He didn't look at the painting anymore, he was intrigued by this man, by his demeanor.

"People don't understand it." The man said, pulling a hand out. "Henry."

Driver looked down at his own hands for a moment, hesitating, before he softly shook the man's hand. "It's not difficult to understand," He said to Henry when their hands pulled apart.

Henry looked Driver up and down before facing the painting. "What do you see?"

Driver glanced at the painting, eyes finding the woman's dead ones. "Pain," He said quietly. Somehow even in this quiet corner of the room, his voice was hard to hear.

Henry looked over at him, eyes wide. "So you do understand it," He nodded approvingly at Driver.

Driver hummed. "Thought it was obvious."

Henry laughed bitterly and waved his hand around the room. "Guess we see things differently than them." He looked back at the painting, his brows furrowing together and a sad gleam in his eyes.

Driver glanced down at the name tag attached to the painting when the light caught the metal.

'Henry Letham'.

Driver looked over at the man again, eyes filled with emotion. Driver stared at Henry like he'd just found someone who might understand him. "You made this?"

Henry hummed with a small nod. "Yeah… shoulda seen how much paint I went through."

Driver couldn't even fake-laugh at Henry's joke. He kept staring at Henry, eyes growing wetter by the second. "You lost her." He wasn't asking Henry, he was just stating an observation. A fact.

Henry sighed deeply, sadly, to himself and looked at the floor. "I did."

Driver shuffled a bit closer to the man but didn't speak. They stood side by side silently, listening to the people in the gallery make conversation and ask the artists questions about their work.

Driver took a deep breath, took one last look at the woman in the painting with the sad, dead eyes, and turned towards Henry. "You like coffee?"

Henry turned his head up with a brow raised. "I do…"

Driver nodded. He stared down at his shoes and then twirled his keys around his pointer finger. "I don't have the money to buy the painting, but I can get you a coffee as thanks."

Henry's eyes widen. "Thanks for what?"

Driver shrugged and felt the rabbit's foot attached to his keys with his thumb. "For understanding."

Henry seemed to realize what he was referring to and nodded sadly.

Driver waited for a response. He already had a plan ready to leave this gallery and not think about this sad, lonely artist so much like himself ever again if he said no.

"Shop not far from here makes good coffee… not too expensive either." Henry finally answered, voice small and hesitant.

Driver's shoulders relaxed and he motioned to the door. "Okay."

He and Henry walked to the door slowly, quietly, and Driver opened the door for Henry.

Even if the coffee wasn't good, even if it wasn't cheap, they could atleast enjoy the silence shared with someone who understood their pain.