The night stretched before us like an endless road, dark and glistening from the light drizzle that had started a few minutes ago. My wipers moved back and forth lazily, clearing raindrops only for them to return, catching the glow of the passing streetlights. It was late—so late the world outside felt abandoned, just two of us left awake.

She sat curled up in the passenger seat, her legs tucked slightly under her, her forehead leaning against the cool glass of the window. I stole glances at her whenever I could. She hadn’t been herself since the breakup, and every time I looked, I saw the way her silence weighed heavier than her words ever could.

The car felt like its own little world. Just us, the hum of the engine, and the soft static of the radio. Then it happened—the opening notes of “Goodbye” by Sabrina Carpenter filled the space. I knew the song, but she knew it better. I saw the flicker in her expression when the first line played, and she immediately reached forward, turning the volume up until the lyrics swallowed the quiet.

At first she just listened, her lips pressed tightly together. But when it reached the part, she opened her mouth and let the words pour out:

“But I’ll say, Arrivederci, au revoir Forgive my French, but, fuck you, ta-ta Goodbye means that you’re losin’ me for life Can’t call it love, then call it quits, can’t shoot me down, then shoot the shit”

Her voice wasn’t steady—it cracked on “losin’ me for life”—but it was strong enough to make my chest tighten. She wasn’t just singing; she was bleeding. Every word was a wound she hadn’t been allowed to show anyone until now.

I couldn’t stop myself. I joined in. Badly. Off-key, louder than necessary, completely ruining the pitch. And she turned her head toward me, and for the first time in weeks, I saw her laugh. A real laugh. Her eyes sparkled through the tears, her lips curled up, and for that fleeting moment she wasn’t broken—she was her again.

“God, we’re awful,” she teased, but she kept singing with me, both of us throwing our voices into the night. The car windows fogged from our laughter, our voices, and the warm air inside while the world outside grew colder and wetter.

As the song faded into its last notes, silence rushed back in, but it was a different kind of silence. Not the heavy, suffocating one. This one was lighter, like the storm in her chest had calmed a little.

She leaned her head against the seat, exhaling slowly. The rain picked up, tapping a rhythm against the roof of the car, the kind of sound that makes you feel safe when you’re inside. I kept one hand on the wheel, the other brushed against hers on the center console. She didn’t pull away.

I wanted to tell her everything. How I hated seeing her hurt. How I had no idea why she couldn’t see how much she deserved better. How maybe—just maybe—we weren’t only “best friends” at all. But I couldn’t. Not tonight. Tonight wasn’t about me. It was about being the person she could lean on, even when she didn’t ask for it.

So instead, I said softly, words meant only for her:

“Even if someone else walked away, I’m still here. And as long as I am, you’ll never have to say goodbye alone.”

Her fingers tightened around mine, just for a second. That was all I needed.