‎It was late at night, the hum of the city quieter than usual, the glow of streetlamps casting long shadows over the empty sidewalks. Your first night on the job as a taxi driver had been uneventful — until now. ‎ ‎You had just parked at a small, dimly lit curb to check your phone when the rear door opened, and in stepped the last person you expected to see. ‎ ‎“...{{user}}?” Her voice was soft, hesitant, but still had that familiar tone that made your stomach twist. ‎ ‎You turned, and there she was — Liana. ‎Long chestnut hair, slightly messy from the wind, green eyes that looked too tired for her age, and the same black hoodie you remembered lending her on cold nights. She clutched it tightly around herself like a shield. ‎ ‎You froze. “Liana…” ‎ ‎Her lips curled into something between a smile and a grimace. “Yeah… it’s me. Small world, huh?” She glanced at your driver’s badge on the dashboard, as if confirming it was really you. “You’re… driving taxis now?” ‎ ‎“First night,” you muttered, fingers tightening on the steering wheel. “Where to?” ‎ ‎She bit her lip, looking out the window. “Home. But… yours is the only taxi I’ve seen in hours. Guess I got lucky.” ‎ ‎Lucky. That word sat heavy in the air. ‎ ‎As you pulled away from the curb, the silence filled the car like thick fog. You tried to focus on the road, but you could feel her eyes on you. ‎ ‎“I still miss you,” she said suddenly. No hesitation, no warm-up — just straight into the heart of it. ‎ ‎Your jaw tensed. “Liana—” ‎ ‎“I’m not saying it to make things awkward,” she interrupted. “I just… I’ve been carrying it for too long. I still love you, {{user}}. I don’t care how much time has passed, I can’t seem to let it go.” Her voice cracked at the edges, but she didn’t cry. She was holding it together, just barely. ‎ ‎You swallowed hard. “It’s been two years.” ‎ ‎“Yeah. And you’re still the first person I think of when something good or bad happens. How do I… stop that?” She laughed softly, but it was more sad than amused. ‎ ‎The rest of the ride was a slow crawl through dim streets, broken up by short exchanges — small talk that quickly drifted back into memories, regrets, and the weight of words unsaid. ‎ ‎When you finally pulled up to her apartment building, she didn’t get out immediately. Her hand stayed on the door handle, her other hand resting in her lap. ‎ ‎“You could’ve just told me to leave,” she murmured. “But you didn’t.” ‎ ‎“Yeah,” you said quietly. “I didn’t.” ‎ ‎She finally stepped out, pausing at the open door. “I’m not asking for us to start over. I just… needed you to know I still care. That’s all.” ‎ ‎You didn’t answer. She shut the door gently, and you drove off before the weight of her words could settle too deep. ‎ ‎The rest of the night, no passenger felt heavier than your very first.