It was day now.

...

Clayton sat in the dark gray back seat.

The cushiony material of the car was painted white
by warm streaks of sunlight flowing through the windows.

The highway was alive. Some red cars, some black, some gray.

People who did not know or care what had happened,
each driving to a different place.

Where are they going?

...

His parents sat in the car's front seats, talking to each other, relieved.

They were driving to his old house so he could stay there for a few days.

All three of his siblings were waiting there for him, apparently.

His shoulder hurt a little, but the doctors assured him that it would go away.

He wondered how many days he had been... asleep,
but his phone was out having its screen repaired.

He didn't feel like asking anybody any questions.

...

Clayton leaned forward, staring at the floor of the car
as he listened to the rumble of tires on the highway pavement.

His brain was useless, not working, not producing any thoughts.

The sunlight shifted a little.

...

After maybe ten seconds, he turned and looked out of the window.

Buildings and trees passed by.

It was a sunny, cloudy day.

His eyes quickly laid upon a tiny white dot between two clouds,
highlighted by the thin strips of water vapor left behind it.

Oh, look, a plane.

He remembered the new fact hard-wired into his brain,
another unbelievable statement in an unbelievable list.

...

It felt as if Clayton's skin had been turned into ice again,
even though it was a sunny and warm day.

And again, for the billionth time, his throat felt tight.

And again, it was impossible to swallow the feelings down.

...

I don't get it.

I don't get why I care this much. I shouldn't.

I wasn't even friends with him. There are, like, ten people who I care about more.

But. He was my age, I mean. Don't think he's far from 22,
and people are supposed to live until 70.

I mean, it never happened before. Nothing close, ever. It was out of the question.

Never would happen to people who play a game for a living, the same game as me.

Those people are carefree, symbols of... fun and stories. Mainly stories. Ugh.

...

The stories are wrong now. Now there's pr-

Proof. The fanfictions are impossible now. I always suspected it, but...

...

If only people respawned in real life too.

I could have talked with him, I mean-

He scratched his head, releasing a shaky breath,
hoping his parents wouldn't hear, wouldn't care, wouldn't turn around.

...

And now, I can never talk to him again.

Always told myself I could, tomorrow, right?

I'm a liar. Always was. I should probably start caring now.

...

The plane flew out of view in the blue sky.

The car kept driving further and further away from the camera,
credits music chasing it.

Come on, one last chapter.