I hadn’t seen {{user}} in a year, maybe more. But the second I pulled into that dusty diner lot, I felt her ghost riding shotgun.

The place hadn’t changed. Same flickering neon, same chipped stools. I took my usual seat, ordered black coffee, no sugar—just like the old days. Then I heard her voice behind me.

“Still riding like you’re chasing something, Jake?”

I didn’t turn right away. Just stared into the cup.

“Maybe I am,” I said.

She stepped closer. I could feel the heat of her.

“Still running from me?”

I looked up, finally. Locked eyes with the only thing I’d never been able to outrun.

“Never ran,” I said. “I just never stopped riding.”