The car was always silent when it came on. Faces just barely illuminated by the interior blue car symbols and the streetlights we passed before the country highways. The two of us always sat in the back, I on the left and she on the right. We never once skipped the amalgamation of Stick Season, all our hearts tenderized during "call your mom". But especially ours. She avoided my gaze for those four minutes and thirty eight seconds, we both knew her mother's number was saved in my phone. She asked me to care for her daughter, hoped she wasn't too heavy a burden, and that she knows how much we love each other. She was a trammel I would pick in any lifetime. I would drive all night, weather the harsh words, the silent days, the nights on the floor. She stayed with us, but not with me. I wonder: does your mom hate me? What did you tell her? Do you hate me? You said so the last time we spoke. Are you medicated? Meditating? Falling in love with her again? She has me occluded too, what do they think? What do you think? The darkness has fooled your perception, I try not to be discouraged. I give myself a reason and hope one day you see me how you once did.