Thoroughfare | narrative fiction

26 Mar, 2025

We didn’t meet in some poetic way. You didn’t save me, and I didn’t ruin you. It was more mundane than that. A highway exit, a flickering diner sign, a cigarette slipping from my fingers and catching wind before it hit the pavement. You watched me from the gas station across the road like I was some strange species. Or maybe you just liked the way I didn’t flinch when the cigarette ember brushed my skin. Either way, you honked once, rolled down your window, and said, “I’ll give you a ride, but only if you lie about your name.”

So I told you I was Autumn. There was a girl in high school with that name who always wore paperclips as earrings and once gave me half her granola bar during a lockdown drill. You said you were nobody. And that’s how it began. Not with fate, but with two people who didn’t want to be found.

We stayed quiet most of the time. Your music taste was dogshit, but I let the static swallow us both. Every once in a while, a truck passed in the opposite direction and you’d flinch, ever so slightly. I noticed, but never asked. I had my own ghosts to mind. You had one of those dashboards littered with gas receipts, lighters that didn’t work, and a half-empty prescription bottle with the label ripped off. I stole one once. You didn’t say anything. I think that was your way of giving me permission to be broken too.

At a rest stop in Montana, a girl with a pink pixie cut asked if I wanted a sandwich. I said no. She gave me one anyway and whispered, “You look hungry in a way food won’t fix.” I wanted to cry, but I just nodded. You saw us talking and looked away, your jaw tight. I think you thought I’d leave with her. Maybe I would have, if her eyes weren’t so kind. I don’t trust kind people anymore. They always think they can fix you.

Somewhere past the state line, we picked up a boy who said his name was Carl but looked more like a Theo. He was barefoot and carried a camera with no battery. You let him in without asking questions. He sat in the backseat and took fake pictures of us like he was documenting something worth remembering. He asked if we were in love. You laughed so hard you had to pull over. I stared at the mountains instead. That night, Carl/Theo stole your jacket and disappeared. I think you missed the jacket more than the boy.

At one point, we stopped pretending we were just driving. We started looking for something. Not home—neither of us knew what that meant. But somewhere quieter. Somewhere without streetlights or people asking, “Are you okay?” in voices too polite to mean it. You taught me how to hotwire motel vending machines. I taught you how to patch a stab wound with superglue. We never said where we learned those things. We didn’t have to.

Sometimes we’d pass through towns where people stared. Maybe they saw something feral in us. Or maybe they just weren’t used to girls with bruised knees and boys with blood on their knuckles smiling like nothing hurt. One night, in a town called Red Hollow, we got drunk on cheap wine and broke into a community pool. The water was cold, and you told me about a girl you used to love. Said she died, but not in the way people think. Just… stopped answering. I kissed you underwater so you wouldn’t cry.

We stayed in the pool. Just our chins above the water, our mouths blue from the cold. You said, “I keep forgetting you’re real.” I blinked slow. Said, “I don’t think I am.” And you laughed, just once, the kind that barely makes a sound. We floated closer. Your nose bumped mine. My legs wrapped around your waist. I rested my cheek against your wet hair and you let me stay like that. There was nothing urgent about it. Just quiet, easy gravity. For once, the world didn’t feel like it was ending. And I think if I had asked you to kiss me again, you would have. But I didn’t. And you didn’t. And that felt like its own kind of love too.

Eventually, the silence changed. It got heavier. You’d drive without blinking. I started sleeping with one hand on the door handle. There were too many things we weren’t saying. Like how you started checking your phone again. Like how I stopped stealing your cigarettes. Like how the car suddenly felt like a coffin with wheels.

We hit the edge of the world at dawn. Or maybe just the end of the road. The cliffs were steep and the wind violent, like it was daring us to jump. You stepped out and lit a match, shielding it from the breeze like it was precious. I asked, “Do you still dream about leaving?” and you didn’t answer. Not right away. You just looked at me like I’d become someone else. Maybe I had.

I almost told you I loved you then. Or that I’d never forgive you. Or that I’d remember the way your fingers brushed my thigh when you thought I was asleep, how your jaw clenched whenever I smiled at strangers. But all I said was, “It’s cold.” You didn’t hesitate. Just peeled off your hoodie and wrapped it around my shoulders, your hands lingering at my neck like you wanted to stay there a little longer. You were shivering, but you didn’t pull away.

That night, I packed my things slowly. I didn’t plan to run. I just kept walking. The wind didn’t try to stop me. The horizon didn’t say goodbye. And when I looked back, the car was gone.

Someone once told me love wasn’t meant to last. That it was like catching fireflies—beautiful in the jar, but dead by morning. I don’t know if what we had was love. But it glowed for a while. That has to count for something.

I still go to diners sometimes. Still accept sandwiches I didn’t ask for. I tell strangers my name is Autumn and they never question it. Sometimes, on long roads when the stars feel like they’re watching, I swear I hear your laugh scraping through the night.

I keep walking. Until I stop running. Maybe then, I’ll call you by your real name.