Where She Waits

She was gone. My Lora.

The kind of gone that left her presence still lingering, but just out of reach. The toothbrush sat in its cup, the mug on the counter. Her shoes sat by the door, as if she might walk back in any moment. But she never would.

The highway stretched out, wide and waiting. I leaned forward, twisted the throttle. The engine answered with a growl that rumbled through my bones.

The wind screamed past my helmet, tugged at my jacket. Eighty. Eighty-five. I didn’t slow down. Not even to breathe.

She moved in my memory—barefoot in the kitchen, my band shirt sliding off one shoulder, a wooden spoon in her hand as she danced like someone was watching. Like she wanted me to watch. The scent of chocolate chip cookies filled the room. Her high bun always came loose halfway through, but she never stopped dancing to fix it.

The bike surged forward. Ninety. The road blurred into a smear of lines and lights.

The night of our honeymoon flickered—her red dress pooling on the floor, her hair curled down her back, the scent of warm sweet vanilla mixed with soft florals filling my lungs, that soft laugh between kisses. She kissed me like forever wasn’t long enough. And it wasn’t.

I thought love meant fixing things. But the day she came home with trembling hands and a folded paper from the doctor, I knew I couldn't fix it and it killed me. She smiled through it, said it was “probably nothing,” but I could see the truth in her eyes. That smile was for me—not for her.

I should’ve told her more—how brave she was. How scared I was.

The wind howled. Or maybe it was something inside me. Or maybe it was the engine surpassing its limits.

She hadn’t blinked. When I found her, her eyes were still open. Blood at the corners of her lips. Dried at her nose. Her body on the floor. Her hand outstretched, still warm.

They’d said it might’ve been something sudden. A vessel in her brain, waiting to burst. Silent until it wasn’t.

I hadn’t blinked since. The world had become a series of flashes—everything distorted, frozen in that one image of her, and I couldn't look away.

Then—glass. Weightlessness. The screech of steel. The pavement bruising my motorcycle with scattering sparks like dying stars. Metal groaned. The asphalt caught me like a truth I couldn’t run from—unforgiving and real.

Silence, again. I lay still for a while, unsure if I was breathing. Unsure if I wanted to be.

The city burned across the water, flickering soft and gold like it was alive. Like it was watching me. Calling me.

I sat up. My left arm hung dead. My right leg twisted wrong. The pain was still, muffled, dreamlike.

I stood.

Then I limped.

Lights flared behind me—red followed by blue. Voices distorted, urgent, echoing. “Sir! Sir, stop!” 

The city shimmered ahead. It smelled faintly of warm sweet vanilla and soft florals. Like cookies in the oven. Like her skin after a shower. Like home.

Each step pulled me closer. The pavement lit with warmth. The wind no longer screamed. It whispered.

Somewhere ahead in the blur, I thought I heard her voice.

I took another step. 

The lights behind me faded.

And then—

She was there.