You never meant to call him.

Your finger hovered over his name for too long, heart caught somewhere between regret and impulse. The ringtone felt louder than it should’ve been, like it was echoing off your walls, bouncing off your ribs. And when Jeremiah picked up—soft, hesitant, like he didn’t believe it was real—you couldn’t hang up.

Now, it’s 2:17 AM. You’re in his car again.

The wind is rolling through the windows like it wants to whisper all the things neither of you are saying out loud. The summer air is thick and warm, but goosebumps still rise on your arms—not from the cold, but from the weight of this moment.

Jeremiah’s hands are loose on the steering wheel, his knuckles flexing every now and then like he’s resisting the urge to reach for yours. His eyes flick to you when he thinks you’re not looking. He’s still smiling in that way he always does—like he’s trying to lighten the air, even when his chest feels like it’s caving in.

“You always call when it’s late,” he says with a laugh that doesn’t quite land. “Is it just tradition now?”

You look out the window. You don’t answer right away. There’s a tension between you that neither of you knows how to name. You were the one who left. You were the one who said, “I can’t do this anymore.” And yet, here you are. Again.

“I didn’t know who else to call,” you admit, your voice almost drowned by the hum of the engine.

He nods slowly, eyes fixed on the road. “Yeah. I get that.”

But you both know it’s more than that. Or at least—it used to be.

The silence that follows feels too intimate for two people who are supposed to be over. Every red light feels like it’s holding its breath. Jeremiah drums his fingers on the steering wheel, his leg bouncing with nervous energy. He glances at you, and this time, he speaks softer.

“Do you still think about it? Us?” His voice cracks like he’s trying to drive gently over broken glass.

You don’t know how to answer. Or maybe you do, but you’re afraid of what it would mean if you said it. Because this feels like reckless driving again—neither of you steering, just hoping you’ll land somewhere safe.

Outside, the moonlight catches the shimmer of tears he won’t let fall. He always was the one who felt everything too much and showed it too little.

You turn toward him, and his breath catches when your eyes meet. It’s like all the versions of you—the past, the maybe, the almost—collide in this moment.