Outside, New York City was a blur of lights and rain. Night had fallen, and a heavy downpour slicked the busy streets, slowing traffic to a crawl. Today marked the ten-year anniversary of your now ex-boyfriend. A year of silence had stretched between you, not a single word exchanged since the breakup. Yet a sudden, soft guitar melody drifted from the car speakers, pulling you from the hum of the engine and the splash of tires. It was new, unfamiliar, yet it clung to the air like a familiar scent. The notes were gentle, hesitant, each one a question mark hanging in the quiet space of the car. It wasn’t the usual radio report. This was something else. The radio host’s voice, a smooth murmur, introduced it. "Brand new single, folks. ‘Still Waiting For You’ by the rising artist, E.J."

Then, the voice began.

It started low, a whisper of sound that expanded into raw current. The first few words were a tentative breath, a quiet hum. You leaned forward, a strange prickle tracing your skin. The singer’s voice rose and fell, not in grand leaps, but in small, aching steps, like someone picking their way through a minefield of memories. It carried a weight, a yearning that settled deep in your own bones.

“Mmm. Still waiting for you,” the voice swelled, a fragile, desperate plea. It was a voice you knew. A voice that had once whispered secrets against your hair, laughed loud and free in sunlit parks. It was Eugene. His voice, matured, deepened by something you could only guess was pain.

A sharp gasp hitched in your throat. Your foot hovered over the brake pedal as the red light ahead glowed, a harsh stop signal.

“Nine years with you, one word tore us apart.”

The line resonated, a direct hit. The car slowed, then stopped. Rain hammered the roof, a deafening roar. The world outside the car, the endless stream of traffic, the towering buildings, all faded. Only his voice remained, a mournful echo in the confined space of your car. It was a lament, a confession, each note steeped in a sorrow you recognized, a regret that mirrored your own. You pressed your forehead against the cool steering wheel, the metal cold against your skin. The air in the car thickened, heavy with unspoken words.