The rain had just started when Matt pulled into the off-ramp station—fluorescents buzzing, moths ricocheting off light. “Two minutes,” Sarah said, sliding out for snacks. He grinned at the dashcam, the kind of grin that looks brave and feels small.
He inched the car forward to the far pump, chuckling at his own joke. She’d step out with chips, see the empty spot, and roll her eyes. That was the script.
The door opened; the bell chimed; he rolled back into the lane.
It took him thirty seconds to realize she wasn’t behind him—and three hours to admit she never came back.
