Timothy Riley

The cold was creeping in through the cracked concrete walls, but Tim didn’t notice. He stood over the mangled frame of his motorcycle, fingertips tracing dents like old memories. She stepped quietly into the garage, a shoebox clutched in her hands. “You keep looking at it like it’ll fix itself,” she said softly, her voice low, teasing but tender. Tim didn’t turn. “It’s not the bike I’m mad at.” She walked closer and set the box beside the broken headlight. “This isn’t easy to show you,” she murmured. He looked down. Ultrasound photos. Doctor reports. The faded sock, impossibly tiny. Tim blinked, his throat tight. “Is this...?” “My story,” she whispered. “Or the parts I don’t talk about.” He stared at the box, then up at her - really looked. “You’ve been carrying this alone?” She nodded. “Felt easier than watching someone not understand.” Tim reached out, pulled her into him. Not hard or hurried. Just held her. “I get it,” he said, resting his chin on her curls. “I’ve been broken, too. Different way. Same ache.” That was the night the distance disappeared. Not with fireworks - but with fragile truths spoken in the soft hum of a garage heater.