At Seventeen.

He put his foot down to catch up with the girl, -who earlier had saved his life, for him to tell her he didn’t want her there. He was visioning scenarios in his head, driving along at maximum speed, his car jumping on every pebble. She noticed a cloud of dust developing behind her, content, she watched as he caught up to her. She moved her eyes back towards the road, to take a quick glimpse of a tree, right in front of her, to re-open them -with the boy stood beside her, watching her, with desperation in his eyes- in a hospital bed. She knew what had happened; he had saved her life, like she had saved him earlier today.

He put his foot down to catch up with the girl. When he reached the main roads, he knew he’d lost her, he was too late, she’d gone, and he knew as little as her name. He didn’t know what to do with himself. He was eager to return to the beach and not let a juvenile woman get in his way, ruin his time of freedom, but he felt guilty and … he felt as if he was betraying her and the beach. His only other option, realistically, was to return home. In desperation, he tried his luck and took the left turn over the right, he’d been driving for hours and he knew he wouldn’t find her, but he just couldn’t turn back. As time developed and distress grew over him he knew he had to pull over and return home. He finally arrived home and shut the front door and the memories behind him, disheartened.