(🎧 “505” — Arctic Monkeys)

The road stretched endlessly ahead, dark except for the glow of the dashboard lights. Yelena’s hands gripped the steering wheel tighter than she meant to. The rain streaked across the windshield, and every few seconds she swore she could hear your voice in the wipers’ rhythm.

She hadn’t meant to come back.

Not after what happened. Not after she’d sworn she’d never look back again.

But here she was — heading toward the only place that had ever felt like home. Toward you.

You’d always joked about it — “505,” that was what you called her hideaway apartment on the edge of the city. The cracked window. The old records. The two mugs that didn’t match but somehow belonged together anyway.

She’d left it — left you — because it hurt too much to stay. But as she drove, the memory of your last night together pressed heavy against her chest. The way you’d whispered her name like a secret. The way she hadn’t said don’t go even though her throat burned with it.

When she finally reached the building, she sat in the car for a long time, fingers trembling. The rain had slowed to a drizzle, the air outside damp and heavy.

The door creaked when she pushed it open. Same hallway. Same flickering light. And then — you.

You stood there, framed in the doorway, wearing that same oversized hoodie she’d left behind.

“Didn’t think I’d ever see you again,” you said softly.

Yelena’s breath caught. “Neither did I.”

The silence stretched. Everything she wanted to say tangled in her throat — I missed you. I’m sorry. I thought leaving would stop the hurt.

Instead, she stepped forward. The space between you shrank until she could feel the warmth of your skin, the echo of your pulse under her fingertips.

“I kept waiting,” you murmured.

“I know,” she said, voice shaking. “I kept driving, and every road led back here.”

Your eyes glistened, a half-smile tugging at your lips. “505 always did.”

She reached up, brushing a strand of hair from your face, her touch tentative, like she wasn’t sure she still had the right. You leaned into her palm anyway.

When she kissed you, it wasn’t desperate. It was slow, hesitant, full of all the words neither of you had ever said.

Outside, the storm eased into quiet, the city humming low beneath the window. Inside, it was just you and Yelena — two hearts, still out of sync, still trying.

And somewhere in the background, that old record player clicked on, the same song you’d both loved playing softly.