He reached for her hand. She let him hold it for a long, quiet minute.
The rain was a steady, tired drumbeat on the roof of the old Ford Focus. Maya gripped the steering wheel, her knuckles white, staring at the familiar brick house across the street. Inside, a light was on in her old bedroom. The room that now belonged to someone else.
Her phone buzzed. A text from Leo: “You’re not really going to just sit there, are you?”
“I’m sorry,” he said. Not for the song. For everything.
He poured her a drink. They didn’t talk about the past. They talked about Seattle, her job, the absurd price of gas. Normal things. But every few minutes, a song from their shared soundtrack would play. The night felt like a session neither of them had signed up for.
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