you were driving on autopilot, the kind that happens when your heart’s been cracked clean in half and your brain refuses to catch up.

the sky was that bruised-purple between evening and night. headlights smeared into soft comets on the windshield. your phone buzzed again in the cupholder—him, probably—but you didn’t look. you already knew what it would say. excuses. apologies. words that meant nothing once trust had died.

cheating had a sound, you decided. not yelling. not crying. just the dull click of something shutting off inside you.

you exhaled shakily, fingers tightening on the steering wheel.

then the car coughed.

once. twice. a violent shudder that rattled through the frame like it was laughing at you. the dashboard lights flared—red, angry, accusing—and before you could even swear, the engine died.

“you’ve got to be kidding me,” you whispered.

you coasted to the shoulder, gravel crunching under the tires. silence slammed down hard after the engine cut. no music. no road noise. just your own breathing, too loud, too fast.

you got out, slammed the door harder than necessary, popped the hood like you knew what you were doing.

you didn’t.

steam curled up mockingly. something smelled burned. you stared at the engine bay as if it might suddenly confess.

great. dumped. cheated on. stranded.

as if summoned by irony itself, a motorcycle engine roared to life nearby.

you glanced up.

a female biker stood a few spaces over, helmet under her arm, leather jacket catching the store’s fluorescent lights. she looked effortless in the way people who knew exactly who they were always did. confident. sharp. unreadable behind dark eyes.

you looked away quickly. you did not have the energy to be perceived.

the biker mounted up, pulled out—

then slowed.

you heard the engine dip. felt the presence before you really saw her, the bike rolling up beside you like a question mark on two wheels.

she flipped up her visor.

“hey, pretty girl,” she said, voice warm, a little rough around the edges. not unkind. not intrusive. just… there. “what’s wrong?”

you laughed once, breathless and bitter, hands dropping from the hood.

“car died,” you said. then, softer, like it slipped out on accident, “so did my relationship.”

her eyebrow twitched. amusement, maybe. sympathy, definitely.

“rough night,” she said, killing the engine. she swung off the bike easily, boots hitting the ground with purpose. “mind if i take a look?”

she smiled at that. not wide. not flashy. something small and real.

and for the first time all night, the tight, aching knot in your chest loosened—just a little—as if the universe hadn’t completely given up on you after all.