you called. you came.

the october rain starts to drizzle cold, the kind of rain that makes you wonder if you should bother with an umbrella. it was hesitant, almost kind of shy pour, it was unsure. it’s not the kind of rain that lashes at windows, or drenches your skin, it’s a mist that clings.

it makes you pause for a second. it makes you look up the sky. the droplets are too small to wet you, but just heavy enough to make you feel slightly uncomfortable, like a minor inconvenience.

you didn’t bother.

your hood was enough. you pulled it tight over your head, casting shadows over your face.

you merged with the sound of the city, the hiss of the passing tires, the distant murmur of voices, the occasional clatter of footsteps on the wet footsteps.

a woman walking in the rain.

nothing more.

nothing less.

your sneakers clash against the muddy pavement, you were grateful for the silence and each steps feel like a betrayal.

your phone buzzes but you didn’t look.

not yet.

instead, you focused on the way the world narrows, each corner was a new decision.

left.

the road less traveled.

a shortcut through the alley where the walls close in like teeth.

your breath quickens and you told yourself, it’s just the cold.

by the time you reached the parking lot, your hair is already damp and clinging to your cheeks.

a car’s headlight flashed once, that’s your cue.

you hesitated for a bit but then walks towards it. your heart is pounding now, a dull roar rings in your ears. the passenger door unlocks with a soft click, and you slide without a word.

he doesn’t look at you right away. his focused stays fixed on the road ahead, although you’ve been parked for a while. he was drumming his fingers on the steering wheel and it felt intentional, as if he is working through a thought that he is not ready to say out loud.

you watched his hands, calloused and restless.

the car smells faintly claustrophobic, a mix of stale cigarette smoke that had already clung to the fabric seats and a cologne that’s trying hard to mask it.

it doesn’t suit him, but somehow it fits the moment. cheap, but effective, like most things about him.

a practical kind of charm that isn’t meant to last.

he finally turned to you, unhurried and deliberate. his eyes catched yours, holding your gaze just a second to long.

it’s not accidental.

there is a weight to it, a silent question hanging in the spces between.

you swallowed but didn’t look away.

his stares isn’t exactly warm, but isn’t cold either, it’s searching, as if trying to find something buried just beneath your surface.

“you came.” he says, his voice is low.

“you called.” you replied while leaning back against the seat and your fingers are fiddling with the hem of your hoodie, twisting the fabric until it bites into your skin.

he reaches out, hesitating for just a breath before his fingers find your face. he brushes a strand of hair from your cheek, he was soft, too careful.

his touch lingers, feather-light, like you’re some of fragile thing that he’s scared of damaging.

you hated it, you hated the way it makes you feel seen when you wanted to disappear. but you loved it too, the warmth of his hands in a world that often feels too cold.

“we don’t have long.” he said, pulling his hand back.

“we never do.”

the car hums to life, the city unraveled in a streaked kaleidoscope, the lights smearing into soft, blurred lines against the rain-slick streets.

it doesn’t feel so real, like a dream you’re half-asleep in.

you didn’t ask where you’re going. you never did because you knew that the answer would make it feel smaller, more ordinary, and that’s the last thing you want.

he didn’t speak again, not a word, until the car rolls to stop outside a rundown motel. the kind of place that looks like it exist only in the margins of the city, cared for just enough to stay standing. the neon sign above flickers, with buzzes of trapped insects and halt the letters are burned out.

no vac nc es

he didn’t turn to you, or even glance in your way. the habitual drumming of his fingers on the wheel stopped, now resting with a kind of finality.

he didn’t ask if you’re okay with this. he doesn’t have to.

you stared out at the motel, the peeling paint, the way the light pools unevenly across the pavement. it’s a place that promises nothing, not even comfort, not that it needs to.

the room rots of mildew and desperation, it was thick in the air and it clings to the cracked walls like an old memory. you can see the peeling in the corners of the garish floral printed wallpaper but none of it bothers you.

you shrugged your hoodie off, tossed it to the corner without even glancing it. his eyes were on you, you can feel it like a weight, but you won’t meet them.

“you’re quiet tonight.” he says, stepping closer.

“am i?” you asked, turning face to him and your lips curled into something that might be a smile, but isn’t.

he reaches for you, and you let him.

his hands are rough, calloused from a life that’s never been gentle, and his touch is firm, assertive in a way that it unsettles you. it’s exactly what you need in this moment.

for a moment, the world narrows again, all the noise in the city, and the history that trails them that collapses into this tiny, suffocating space between them.

you are losing yourself into it.

you lie side by side on the creaking bed, the sheets tangled beneath you as the air thick with the aftermath. the silence stretches between you, heavy and suffocating, pressing down like a weight neither of you is willing to lift. it’s the kind of silence that says too much without ever uttering a word, an understanding that you both pretend not to feel.

you stares at the ceiling, you gaze fixed on the cracks that spider across the paint, the way they twist and turn in directions that don’t make sense. you counted them, one by one, the same way you count the seconds passing, the same way you learned to count the spaces between your breaths.

he reaches for the pack of cigarettes on the nightstand, the sound of the foil tearing a brief disturbance in the quiet. he lights one, the ember flaring bright for a moment before settling into a steady glow. each drag illuminates his face in fleeting flashes, casting his features in sharp contrast to the dark room. for a moment, it’s as if he’s a stranger again.

“why do we do this?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

his hand freezes mid-drag, the smoke hanging between them, thick and stifling. the question lingers in the air like a weight you both know too well. he exhales slowly, watching the smoke curl and dissipate into the dimness of the room. he doesn’t answer right away, as if giving himself time to piece together an answer that doesn’t feel like a lie.

“why do we do this?” you ask again, the question raw, the edge of it cutting through the silence. you roll onto your side, finally facing him, your eyes searching his. you know the answer, but you want him to say it.

to admit it out loud, even if it won’t change anything.

he doesn’t look at you immediately. instead, he flicks the cigarette into the ashtray with a quick, practiced motion, his eyes avoiding yours as if somehow, by not looking, he can pretend the truth doesn’t sting. when he speaks, it’s quieter, but it still carries the weight of everything you’ve avoided saying.

“because we can’t stop.” he says, his voice low, rough.

“it’s easy to pretend like it doesn’t matter, but it does. this.” he gestures vaguely between you. “it’s the only thing that makes sense. the only thing that doesn’t demand anything from us.”

“you think that’s enough?” you challenge, your voice breaking the tension, sharp like glass. “you think pretending we’re fine, that we’re just… here, like this, is enough to keep us going? to make it worth it?”

“it’s not about whether it’s enough.” he says, his words coming faster now. “it’s about what happens if we stop. what happens if we walk away? we don’t know how to let go of this. not really.”

“you don’t get it.” you snap, frustration bubbling to the surface. “you’re so caught up in this, in whatever this is, that you can’t see how much it’s breaking us. how much it’s damaging us. we’re just two people too scared to face the real shit. we keep coming back because it’s easier than facing the truth.”

the silence stretches between you, raw and exposed, and for the first time, you both understand what you’ve been avoiding. it’s not just the affair, it’s what it represents, the way it allows you both to exist in this half-state, neither fully alive nor fully dead.

“you think i don’t know. i know this isn’t real. but for a second, it feels like it could be.”

“you’re wrong.” you say, your voice softer now, but no less firm. “it’s never going to be real. not for us. we’re too fucked up to make something like this work.”

he turns to you then, his eyes dark with the weight of what you’ve just said, but there’s no anger, no denial.

“then why don’t we stop?” he asks, his voice barely audible, as if the question is too dangerous to speak out loud.

you don’t have an answer.

the tension hangs in the air, thick and unyielding, like the smoke still curling in the room. you both stand there, the weight of everything you’ve just said settling between you, raw and heavy. his eyes burn into yours, and you feel his desperation, his need to escape, to leave everything behind.

he steps closer, his hand finding your arm, his grip tight and insistent. “we’ll leave, okay? we’ll leave this town, we’ll leave everything behind. you’ll leave him, i’ll leave her, we’ll start over, just the two of us. we’ll run away, live life the way we’re meant to. no more pretending. no more lies. just you and me, somewhere else. somewhere no one can find us.”

his words are a promise, but they’re also a plea. you can see it in the way his eyes flicker, in the way his chest rises and falls with the weight of his hope.

he doesn’t respond right away. he takes a step back, his face tightening. “we don’t have to fix anything. we just need to leave it all behind. we’ll go somewhere new, somewhere far away, and start fresh. we’ll meet up, you and me. i’ll wait for you. we’ll have a place, a spot, just for us.”

you feel the temptation tugging at you, the thought of escaping this place, of starting over somewhere else, away from the weight of your life, away from the people who expect things from you. but there’s a cold knot in your stomach, a feeling that keeps you rooted in place, even as your heart pounds.

he’s not done yet. his eyes never leave yours, his voice shaking now with the promise. “i’ll go, okay? i’ll go, but i need you to be there. i need you to show up. it’s the only way we can make it work. we’ll meet at the old diner, 2 am, the one by the bridge. i’ll be there, waiting for you.”

you stare at him for a long moment, feeling the weight of his words, feeling the urgency in his plea. the temptation is there, pressing in from all sides, but something inside you holds you back. something in the pit of your stomach tells you that this isn’t the answer, that running away won’t fix anything. it’ll only make it worse.

“i’ll be there.”

“you promise?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper, the desperation thick in the air.

---

your bag sits on the booth beside you. you have decided to come and to gamble. its 1:30 am, the diner hums in stillness and the sound you hear is the clatter of dishes from the kitchen and the low murmur of the radio.

“severe weather alert: heavy rains and landslides hit — drivers urged to stay home”

“this just in: heavy rains continue to lash the region, triggering landslides in several areas. authorities are strongly advising drivers to avoid unnecessary travel as roads remain hazardous and visibility is severely reduced. stay tuned for updates and stay safe.”

you wrap your hands around the lukewarm cup of coffee. you stared at the clock on the wall as its hand crawl forward.

tick. tock. tick. tock.

you told yourself that you wouldn’t wait.

you told yourself that you would leave if he didn’t show, but as the clock strikes 2:30, you’re still there. your coffee is cold now, untouched and it reflects the harsh fluorescent light over your head.

you glance toward the door every time it swings open, but it’s never him. just the occasional trucker, the graveyard-shift nurse grabbing a late-night bite, or the staff moving through the motions of their routine.

at 3:30, the waitress offers to refill your coffee, her expression kind but tinged with curiosity. you nod, muttering a thank-you, even though you’re not sure you’ll drink it. the booth feels smaller, tighter, as if the walls of the diner are slowly closing in.

by 4:30, the hope you clung to starts to wane, giving way to an emptiness that feels too vast to fill. you glance at your phone again, even though you know there’s nothing. no messages. no calls. nothing.

you trace the rim of the coffee cup with your finger, your mind replaying every word, every touch, every promise. you believed him. or maybe you wanted to believe him.

by 5:30, the sun begins to creep over the horizon, its light filtering through the diner’s grimy windows. the fluorescent glow is drowned out by the soft warmth of dawn, but it feels hollow, an unwelcome contrast to the cold knot in your chest. the waitress gives you a knowing look as she clears your cup, but she doesn’t say anything.

she doesn’t need to.

you sit there for a moment longer, staring out at the empty parking lot, the faint streaks of pink and gold spreading across the sky. you thought leaving would be the hardest part. you thought it would feel like freedom, like breaking the chains that held you down.

but instead, it feels like defeat.

you stand, slinging your bag over your shoulder. the weight of it feels heavier now, not just from the contents, but from the realization that you’ve been left behind. you step outside, the crisp morning air biting at your skin, and take one last look at the diner before walking away.

he’s standing there.

he’s standing there, swaying lightly, his clothes cake with mud and his face is smeared with blood. your breath catches your throat. for a moment, you don’t move, your brain struggling to reconcile the image of him now with the man you know — the one who’s always composed, always in control. this version of him is raw, broken, but undeniably here.

“you came.”

“i’m sorry.” he says, his voice hoarse, barely audible over the pounding of your heart. “i’m late.”