The familiar hum of the interstate was a lullaby, lulling me into that half-sleep state where dreams and reality blurred. Then, a sharp, high-pitched squeal ripped through the quiet, jolting me upright. My heart hammered against my ribs, an empty can crunching under my foot as I scrambled for footing.

But there was no careening vehicle, no desperate brake. Just Britt, my best friend, eyes twinkling, a triumphant smile spreading across her face. We were here.

My vision, still blurry from sleep and the lingering sting of tears I’d shed hours ago, struggled to focus on the road ahead. Then I saw it. The sign. “Welcome to Nashville.”

A weak, almost-smile touched my lips, a pale imitation of the wide grin this moment deserved. Britt’s enthusiasm, usually boundless, wavered. “Oh, God. I’m so sorry. You were asleep?” she mumbled, her voice tinged with guilt.

I shook my head, a lie forming easily on my tongue. “Britt, it’s fine. I mean, the heart attack wasn’t, but I’m glad you woke me up.”

She likely knew it was a lie. I should have been ecstatic, snapping a cheesy selfie with the sign. This was the plan, the decade-long dream finally manifesting. But as much as I tried to deny it, a piece of my heart, larger than I ever intended to give, lay miles behind us, somewhere back in Mississippi.