The city never fully slept, and neither did Elena.
She stared out the dormitory window, the sky stretched thin and gray, a fragile veil over the horizon. Just past 2 a.m. The room behind her breathed softly — three strangers lost in their own dreams or nightmares. She couldn't tell which. Her pillow pressed cool against her cheek, the sheets tangled beneath her weight, but no matter how still she lay, sleep slipped away like water through her fingers.
Quietly, she rose, her footsteps soft and measured. Years of living here had taught her that even the smallest noise could unravel someone else's fragile peace.
Her coat hung by the door — thin but worn enough to feel like home. She didn't need to check her pockets. The folded note was there, untouched, unread. Her father had written it long ago, before the hospice nurse whispered, "He still has some good days." They never came.
She slipped out into the corridor, then into the night.
The air was cool, heavy with the scent of damp asphalt and faint neon burning somewhere distant. Her breath rose in thin clouds as she moved forward, not toward anywhere, just forward — the only direction she could summon on nights like this.
The city hummed around her: the low rumble of late trains vibrating through the pavement, brittle laughter spilling from a bar still open, the soft shuffle of footsteps. Mostly, though, it was quiet — the kind of silence that stretched tight and stretched deep, amplifying the weight you carried inside.
She pulled out her phone and tapped the ride-share app, a ritual now. Tap. Wait. Breathe.
Five minutes later, the car arrived. The same one as before.
The same driver.
He never asked where she was going. She liked that about him.
"Just twenty minutes," she said, her voice barely more than a breath as she slid into the passenger seat.
He nodded once and eased the car onto the empty street.
Inside, the faint scent of lavender mingled with something metallic — the smell of time itself. A thin blanket lay folded on the seat beside her. The cassette player in the console sat empty, as if someone had once played music here but lost the will.
She leaned her head against the cool glass and watched the city blur past in shards: pools of red and green light from traffic signals, graffiti curling like smoke on cracked walls, a man wheeling a suitcase through a shallow puddle.
"Could you take the long way?" she asked, voice soft, eyes still fixed on the window.
The driver nodded again.
She didn't know his name, never asked. No badge, no small talk. In a strange way, he was her confessor, silent and steady, guiding her through these aimless pilgrimages beneath the sodium streetlights.
"My dad used to drive at night," she murmured before she realized it. "Not for work. Just… he couldn't sleep. Said the night made sense in ways the day never did."
The driver said nothing. His hands stayed calm on the wheel.
"He's dying," she added quietly. "In case you were wondering." A pause. "But I guess you weren't."
The streetlight ahead flickered yellow. He didn't speed up.
"I thought I'd cry more," she said, pulling her knees to her chest. "Or scream. Or write some perfect goodbye. But instead… I just pay strangers to drive me in circles."
He glanced at her in the mirror. No pity, only understanding. Recognition.
She reached into her bag and pulled out a crumpled flyer for a poetry reading on campus. She'd circled the date weeks ago. Never went.
"I used to write," she whispered. "When I thought I had something to say."
From her coat pocket, she pulled a scrap of paper — not the letter, another fragment. She read aloud:
"Sleep is a thief that returns nothing.
Loneliness is a quiet inheritance."
The driver's eyes met hers briefly in the mirror. No applause came.
After a long silence, she spoke again.
"Do you think there's a word for missing someone who isn't gone yet?" Her fingers twisted the hem of her sleeve. "I keep trying to invent one."
He made a soft sound, almost agreement, then turned onto a bridge overlooking the river.
"Stop here," she whispered.
He pulled over. The streetlights glittered on the water like fragile pulses.
She stepped out, leaning against the railing. The hospice was just visible — a single flicker in a window, a faint breath of life. Maybe a nurse moving. Maybe not.
The letter still weighed heavy in her pocket, memorized in its absence.
"You know what's strange?" she said to the sky. "I haven't opened it. He wrote it before he stopped recognizing me. I carry it like a talisman. Like opening it would make it real."
Behind her, the driver stood quiet, watching.
After a while, she smiled — cold and unsteady.
"You can go. I'll walk."
But he didn't move. Instead, he opened the trunk and wordlessly handed her a small thermos.
She took it.
Warm chamomile. Not too hot. She held it with both hands, drawing in the steam as if it might steady the ache inside.
"Okay," she whispered, finally unfolding the letter.
Four words.
Don't carry my sadness.
Below, her name scrawled in thick, uneven strokes.
She sat on the curb, thermos beside her. Tears came — not loud sobs, but slow, grainy drops that surprised her. Tears that washed nothing clean but still mattered.
The driver sat across from her, just far enough away, the river flowing between them.
After a while, Elena stood.
"Can you take me back?"
He nodded, and they drove through the quiet city again.
This time, she asked him to crack the windows.
She needed the night air — to feel alive, just a little.
As they neared campus, she asked softly, "Do you think I'll sleep tonight?"
He didn't answer. But the kindness in his eyes caught hers in the mirror.
For the first time in weeks, she dared to believe it was possible.