People keep looking at me,

then at the wreckage,

as though one of us

must be telling a lie.

The car is gone.

Written off.

A collection of metal

that no longer resembles a journey.

"You're lucky,"

I nod.

What else is there to say

when your body has no fractures

but your mind cannot piece together

how it all happened?

I keep returning to the moment.

The seconds before.

The impact.

The silence afterwards.

How close was it?

Was there a moment

when everything could have ended?

And if there was,

did I even know?

I look at my hands.

My legs.

My face.

Everything appears to be where I left it.

Yet something feels unfamiliar.

I don't know what to call this;

relief? disbelief? fear?

or... the strange discomfort

of being here

when the wreckage suggests otherwise.

Everyone seems to have reached a conclusion.

I haven't even understood the question.