I sit patiently in the passenger seat staring out the window watching the scenery move at 60 miles an hour.

All I can think about is how you’re sitting so close to me, not even a foot away.

But somehow, you still feel so far.

The trees outside feel closer to me than you do.

I ask you where we’re going and you stay silent. I don’t think you heard me.

I turn my head to the window again, routinely.

You turn the volume up on a song we both know.

Our fingers begin tapping to the beat in unison.

That makes me feel a bit closer to you, but not much.

I wonder if our hearts are beating in unison as well.

I don’t want to ruin the moment by speaking, but I have so many questions.

“How old were you when you lost your first tooth?”

“When did you figure out the truth about Santa?”

“What is your favorite color?”

“Do you feel the same way about me? The way I feel about you?”

I mutter the last one under my breath.

“Did you say something?” you ask.

“No, no. I’m just talking to myself.”

I don’t think you heard me when I told you how I felt in your car.