The gravel crunches under your tires as you pull into the lookout point at the edge of the city. It’s your spot. The place that used to belong to the two of you. You haven’t been here since the breakup, and for a moment, you almost turn back. The sky stretches in slow waves of orange and violet, the city lights below blinking awake like distant memories. It’s quiet. Almost too quiet.

You turn off the engine and sit there, letting the silence settle. You park, step out, and walk to the railing. The metal is cool beneath your palms. Below, the city hums faintly, distant and untouchable. You breathe in the silence, not realizing how much you’ve missed it.

Then, the faint hum of another car breaks it. A small blue sedan rolls to a stop a few spaces away. You feel your chest tighten before your mind even catches up. You know that car.

Eileen steps out. She looks smaller than you remember, her movements careful, almost uncertain. She walks toward the railing and rests her hands on it, eyes on the horizon. The wind catches her hair and moves it across her face. She doesn’t push it back. For a long moment, she just stands there, still and quiet, as if she’s been holding her breath for months and finally remembered how to breathe again.

Then she senses you. Her head turns slightly, just enough for your eyes to meet. She stops. The air seems to stop with her.

Her lips part, but no words come out at first. You see the disbelief flicker across her face, then something softer, recognition, nostalgia, maybe even longing. She takes a step back, then forward again, not sure what to do with the space between you.

“You,” she finally says. Her voice is quiet, fragile, like it might break if she speaks too much “What are you doing here?”