The Ride Home

The night didn’t end when I left the venue.

It followed me.

I spotted my brother's girlfriend waving in the middle of the crowd in the lobby. We were both still smiling, still hyped from the concert. On the way out, I told them about the missed photo op and how I almost lost my seat. We laughed about it, replaying the chaos of the night like it had already become a memory worth keeping.

The cool air outside hit my skin as I stepped away from the noise, the music still echoing somewhere in my chest.

I slid into the seat, buckled in, and watched the venue disappear in the rearview mirror.

That should’ve been it.

I should’ve gone back to reality the moment I got home.

But my mind refused to move on.

Every few seconds, I felt the weight of my phone in my hand—even when it was resting quietly in my bag. I kept replaying everything: the way he looked at me when he asked if I was heading home, the pause before he asked for my number, the brief moment of silence before his phone finally rang.

I wondered if he’d text.

The drive felt longer than it should have. Streetlights blurred past the window, one after another, like punctuation marks in a sentence that wouldn’t end. I was grateful for my brother and his girlfriend's light, funny conversation—it helped pull my thoughts away, even briefly, from everything that happened between the band’s sets.

When I finally got home, I slipped inside quietly and went straight to my room. I dropped my bag, kicked off my shoes, went through my night routine, and collapsed onto my pillows.

A few moments later, I heard my phone vibrate inside my bag.

It might be him, I thought.

But I was too sleepy—too exhausted—to reach for it.

Then it hit me.

My phone battery was already down to twenty percent.

Doesn’t matter, I told myself.

I’m too tired.

Still jet-lagged.

I’ll check it in the morning.

I don't care right now if it was him.

Whatever it was, it could wait.

I closed my eyes—not knowing that somewhere, my phone was already holding an answer.