You never liked the word lost. It made it sound careless, as if he’d misplaced himself. He rode like breathing—natural, unforced.

When you were together, you’d sit behind him, your helmet pressed lightly to his back, listening to the engine hum through your ribs. You learned his moods by the way he shifted gears. You trusted him because he trusted the road.

The crash came on a day that wasn’t supposed to matter. Clear sky. Dry asphalt. A moment too fast or too slow—no one could ever agree which. Afterward, people spoke gently to you, as if volume could bruise you further.

For a long time, you didn’t ride. But you listened. You listened to motorcycles passing your window at night, to the way your chest still tightened at the sound.

You listened to the part of you that wasn’t broken—just quiet. And one morning, without ceremony, you signed up for lessons.

Your hands shook the first time you wrapped them around the handlebars. Not from fear. From recognition.

When you got your license, you didn’t cry. When you bought the bike—used, scratched, imperfect—you smiled. It felt right that it had a history.

The first ride alone was strange. Empty seat behind you. Too much space. But you felt like you were still always together. Riding beside each other.

You imagined him there—not as a ghost, not as a wound, but as memory with weight and warmth. You rode the roads he loved. And you were never lonely. You rode like that for months.