||ᏴᎽ ͲᎻᎬ ᏟᏞᎪᏔ.|| ★ Miles 𝟒𝟐 X Reader.

𝙽'

It wasn't easy no, and it wasn't about the traffic. Or even the world around him moving slower in pace as if the universe was doing it on purpose. If anything it bought him time to collect his thoughts, even if it was only making him suffer more..-

So it wasn’t the traffic. That delay was mercy—gave him minutes to grip the bike tighter, fingers cramped around the throttle, engine purring under nervous hands. He revved it once, out of strained impact not to move, but to exhale the shaking breath he couldn’t name. People looked. He didn’t look back.

He didn’t know how long it had been—days, months, too many excuses stacked on top of each other like broken bricks. But now wasn’t the time to tally regrets. He was already a few blocks down, and the deeper he rode into the old neighborhood, the heavier it felt. With anxiety when the mere seconds flicked away, he didn’t even realize how wide his eyes were while he waited for the light to switch.

Green.

And he drove off. But it didn't stop his head from throbbing, trying not to remember her face, It haunted him. And it gave him an advantage While it took all his willpower not to turn this bike around, because he doesn't know how she'll react, and he doesn't want to find out.

"ˢʰᵉ ᵈᵒᵉˢⁿ’ᵗ ᵏⁿᵒʷ ʷʰᵃᵗ ⁱ’ᵛᵉ ᵇᵉᶜᵒᵐᵉ. ᵈᵒᵉˢⁿ’ᵗ ᵏⁿᵒʷ ʷʰʸ ⁱ ˢᵗᵃʸ ᵃʷᵃʸ. ᵇᵘᵗ ˢʰᵉ ᶠᵉᵉˡˢ ⁱᵗ."

The anxiety crept upward, soft at first, then pressing hard against the edges of his focus, kissing his temples with the bitter-sweet. Oh, he can just see her face now, Brows furrowed..disappointed.

The next light turned red—almost mockingly. Like it was giving him a last chance to back out. The helmet grew heavier, pressing his thoughts down like weights. He could turn left. Pretend the weather stopped him. Tell himself he tried. 

But that wasn't love, Wasn't her's and he knew that.

So there he goes, driving down, and it felt like there was a clock on him, He inhaled and blew out slowly, breath fogging up the visor—shallow, damp, and laced with storm air. His hands were sweating inside the gloves, palms slick against the grip. He lifted one foot from the ground, letting the bike glide forward.  —slow, shallow breaths that complement the storm coming in, how poetic. The helmet felt heavier now, like it wasn’t shielding him, just keeping the thoughts in, While they spun and danced..-

The street smelled like damp concrete and small gruff of coffee in people's hands, clinging to old corners
He didn't cross in a minute, He knew somewhere, a loose sign clanged against rusted metal, calling him home with a broken rhythm.

And while he turned the corner around one of the final streets until he officially got there, those thoughts froze, his bike purring while he slid along, already grasping to where he used to grow up.

And it silently plummeted his gut at it.  The streets looked so empty now. Things faded, Vivid memory Shot. The block looked hollow—like memory had been scraped from it. The chairs that the old heads used to post up on watching kids run were gone. The grass where the old ladies would water their flowers was completely tattered with that brownish color it took when it turned dry. Things Seemed to change when the crime rose just a bit higher here..and subconsciously, he couldn't help but think, it was his fault in the mix.

Eyes glazed behind the visor, helmet fogging ever so slightly from the breath he’d forgotten he was releasing,

he rode in like the city wasn’t even real. The world moved past in faint shapes and colors, but his mind refused to track any of it. The rain pattered harder around him but it was like a force while his mind went completely blank, only creeping in short thoughts, thoughts of doubt, guilt that he'd question again and critique. Thoughts that crawled through him like oil—slick, dirty, impossible to shake off.