10 minutes

The engine clicks as it cools, metal settling into silence. The lake stretches out in front of her, flat and endless, catching the dull grey of the sky. It looks colder than she expected. Or maybe that’s just how everything feels now.

She loosens her grip on the steering wheel, flexing her fingers like they don’t quite belong to her. Ten minutes, she tells herself. Just ten. Then she’ll decide.

The quiet is deafening. It presses in, filling the space where noise usually lives. Crying, cartoons, the hum of a washing machine that never seems to stop. Her eyes burn with a heaviness that sleep hasn’t touched in months. There’s a sour smell in the car – old milk, something forgotten. A small sock lies crumpled on the passenger seat. She doesn’t remember bringing it with her.

He said he was tired too. The thought flickers up, sharp and unwelcome. As if tired is the same thing. As if it sits the same way in his body, like a weight that never lifts, like something stitched into her bones. She presses her forehead against the steering wheel, the cool plastic grounding her for a moment.

What kind of mother ends up here?

The question lands harder than anything else. It doesn’t shout. It doesn’t need to. It just sits there, quiet and certain.

A sound cuts through it – a laugh. Bright and sudden. Not real, but close enough to make her chest tighten. She sees it clearly: tiny fingers curled around hers, gripping like she is the whole world. Like she is enough.

“I don’t want to die,” she says out loud, her voice cracking in the stillness. Saying it makes it real in a different way. Harder to ignore. “I just don’t want… this.”

Her phone buzzes softly. She stares at it, watching the screen light up, then fade. For a moment, she’s sure she hears crying. She holds her breath, listening. Nothing. Just the quiet again.

She lifts her head and looks at the water, properly this time. It doesn’t move. It doesn’t ask anything of her. It would be easy. That’s the worst part. Not dramatic, not loud. Just one step after another.

Time feels strange here, stretched thin. The ticking of the clock is too loud, each second dragging against the next. Her hands rest in her lap, like they’re waiting for someone else to tell them what to do.

A soft alarm breaks the silence. She flinches, being pulled from somewhere far away. Ten minutes.

She closes her eyes and inhales, her breath uneven, catching halfway in her chest. For a second, she doesn’t move at all. The moment hangs, fragile and uncertain.

“Okay” she whispers, though she isn’t sure what she’s agreeing to.

Her hand reaches for the key, fingers trembling just enough to notice. The engine roars to life, filling the car, pushing back the silence.

She keeps her eyes forward.

She doesn’t look at the water again.