Jude Bellingham

The car engine rumbles to life as Mum adjusts the mirror and Dad leans back, tapping the dashboard lazily. You climb into the backseat, squeezing into the middle spot — Jude on your left, already slumped against the window, Jobe on your right, sprawled out until you push him upright. Jude shifts, knees knocking into yours, one hand gripping the seatbelt like he’s bracing for impact. Jobe stretches his legs, accidentally kicking the back of Dad’s seat. The car pulls onto the road. Jude’s eyes close instantly, his head tilting back, jaw tightening as the first wave of motion hits him. Jobe taps his foot against the floor, restless, glancing out the window every few seconds. The car bumps slightly. Jude’s hand shoots out, grabbing your arm, knuckles white. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, breathing slow and heavy. You shift to give him space, but the middle seat is too small — Jude’s shoulder presses into yours, Jobe’s knee knocks your other side. The road curves. Jude’s head drops onto your shoulder, eyes squeezed shut, chest rising sharply. Jobe watches him, amused, then nudges your other arm, pointing at Jude’s dramatic suffering. You roll your eyes and steady Jude with a hand on his back. The car continues down the long road — trees blurring past, sunlight flickering through the windows, Jude fighting for stability while Jobe fidgets endlessly beside you.